The Promise of Tabscoob
Aguilar left Cortés's tent. The setting sun painted the camp red, and in the distance, by a fire near the captain's tent, he saw Malintzin, sitting on the ground with her hands resting on her knees, gazing at the horizon. He stopped for a moment to observe her. That girl, he thought, was going to be key in the days to come. And he had to make sure, along with the scribe, that she learned not just words, but the meaning of everything that was happening.
He quickened his pace toward the outskirts of the city, where the Maya, far from the Spanish presence, had begun to build huts of straw and mud. The smell of smoke and cooking food floated in the air, mingled with the scent of the jungle that stretched beyond the last houses. He carried no weapons, and the few soldiers who saw him pass looked at him with curiosity, but no one stopped him. After all, he was the interpreter, the man who spoke the language of the Indians. An ambiguous being, too close to the enemy to be entirely trustworthy, but too useful to be set aside.
He walked without hurry, feeling the weariness in his bones. The meeting with Cortés, the weight of Tabscoob's words in the air, the image of the cross driven into the temple of Kukulkán... everything swirled in his head like a thick soup. Eight years, he thought. Eight years in these lands, and I still don't know if I belong to one world or the other.
He arrived at the small limestone structure that had been the resting house of Tabscoob's father and grandfather. There, the ancient chiefs of the city had come to hunt, to meditate, to escape the bustle of the court. The walls, still sturdy, preserved remnants of red and black paint, and on the lintel of the entrance was carved the glyph of his lineage: a circle with a dot in the center, the same one he had signed that morning on the Spanish parchment. The palm roof, though hastily repaired, barely covered a small room, with packed earth and the smell of smoke.
Tabscoob was sitting on the ground, legs crossed and back against a stone column. His eyes were closed and his hands rested on his knees. His breathing was slow, deep. He did not seem to be sleeping, but meditating. Beside him lay some cotton blankets, and from a beam hung his quetzal-feather headdress. The place was modest, almost austere for one who had been ruler of Potonchán.
The Maya chief had exchanged his cotton garments for a simple henequen-fiber blanket, and instead of the quetzal-feather headdress, he wore a leather band that held back his hair. His face, which had shown dignity in battle, now showed the weariness of the defeated.
He opened his eyes and recognized Aguilar. He did not rise, but a glimmer of curiosity crossed his gaze.
—Aguilar —said Tabscoob, in a deep voice—. What brings you here? Has your captain come to ask me for more offerings? Or has he decided I am no longer of use and wants to be rid of me?
—No, Tabscoob —Aguilar replied in Maya—. Cortés is returning your house to you. He wants you to return as soon as you can.
Tabscoob looked at him with disbelief.
—Return my house? After taking it from me? What kind of game is this?
Aguilar sat down in front of him, on the ground, without waiting for an invitation. It was not a gesture of familiarity, but of respect: a man who sits at the level of another.
—This is not a game —Aguilar replied, measuring each word—. It is a sign of trust. Cortés wants you to understand that the Spanish crown extends its hand to you, and that the men who have arrived in these lands seek not war, but alliance. He longs for your friendship.
Tabscoob let out a bitter laugh, dry as the earth in drought.
—Our friendship? After killing my warriors, taking my women, tearing my gods from their altars? Now I must offer my friendship?
Aguilar fell silent. He knew there was no answer for that. Tabscoob looked at him for a long moment, then sighed, like one setting down a weight he had carried too long.
—Come —said the chief, rising slowly—. Accompany me. We will walk while you tell me what your captain truly wants.
They left the hut and walked together along the main street of Potonchán, flanked by the Maya huts and the stone houses the Spanish had occupied. The sun was setting behind the temple, staining the wooden cross an intense red, as if the blood of sacrifices still stained the city. The breeze carried the scent of incense from Fray Bartolomé's church, but also the aroma of the jungle and damp earth.
They advanced a few steps in silence. Tabscoob stopped and, without turning around, asked:
—Tell me, what does Cortés want from me?
Aguilar approached and replied:
—Cortés wants to know if that city of gold that Malintzin mentions truly exists. He is not satisfied with rumors or with the stories the Maya tell their children by the fire. He wants to know its location, its path, its guardians. He wants to know if the gold is as abundant as they say.
They resumed their march. The sunlight faded among the branches of the trees, and the noise of the village slowly died away. Tabscoob was silent for a long stretch. Then, without stopping, he glanced sideways at Aguilar and asked:
—And what do you want to know?
The question, so unexpected, made Aguilar stop for an instant. Tabscoob had disarmed him with that simplicity. Because what he wanted to know had nothing to do with gold or the routes to the highlands. It was something more ancient, more personal, deeper.
—I have spent many years in these lands —said Aguilar, resuming his step—. I was shipwrecked on your coasts, I was a slave until they bought my freedom. But I did not come alone. Another man traveled with me. We survived, but we were separated. Since then I have known nothing of him. I want to know if he still lives.
Tabscoob looked at him carefully, his dark eyes gleaming in the twilight light. He said nothing for a long moment. Then, instead of answering directly, he stopped in the middle of the path.
—Before I answer, tell me one thing, Aguilar —said the chief—. How did you end up here? How did you come to these lands?
Aguilar felt a lump in his throat. The question, so simple, opened a wound he had been trying to close for eight years. He took a breath. The words did not come easily; each one weighed like a stone.
—Eight years ago, my ship was wrecked near Cozumel —he said, his voice hoarser than he had expected—. The storm was terrible. Several of us managed to reach the shore, but the Maya captured us. Most were sacrificed. I survived because I learned your language. Only two of us remained: an Andalusian named Gonzalo Guerrero and myself. They separated us immediately. He was taken to the mainland; I was taken to an island, where a chief kept me as a slave. Later a merchant bought me and took me to the coast of Yucatán. There I remained until Cortés rescued me.
He paused. The afternoon had grown darker, and the birdsong was fading.
—But of Guerrero I know nothing —he continued, and his voice trembled for just an instant—. I only know that he survived. I have heard rumors: that he became a warrior, that he tattooed his face, that he took a Maya wife and that he is now a lord among them. But I do not know if it is true. I do not know if that man is truly my friend or just a stranger spoken of in rumors.
Tabscoob observed him in silence. His eyes, which had seen defeat and death, softened for an instant. He said nothing. He only nodded slowly, as if that story were familiar to him, as if he had heard the name of Gonzalo Guerrero before in some conversation by the fire.
They walked a while longer, moving away from the last huts, until they reached a clearing where the river made its way through the vegetation. The sunlight had almost completely faded, and the water reflected the first glimmers of the stars. Tabscoob stopped by the bank and gazed at the river for a long moment. Then, without turning around, he spoke:
—I may know that man —said Tabscoob—. I have not seen him with my own eyes, but the merchants who come from the south, from the lands of the coastal Maya, tell stories of a white man who fights like a Maya, speaks like a Maya, and dresses like a Maya. Who has taken a woman of lineage and has children. They say he is a feared warrior, who leads his men in battle and has learned the art of Maya warfare. They say he has earned the respect of the chiefs, and the Maya call him Na' Chan Kan, the Warrior of the Celestial Serpent. He could be your friend. Or he could be another.
Aguilar felt his heart race. Tabscoob's words matched the rumors he had heard for years, but hearing them from the mouth of a chief, someone who knew the trade networks and the paths of the coast, gave them a different weight. For an instant, the weariness disappeared, replaced by a spark that had been extinguished for eight years.
—Then how can I know if it is him? —Aguilar asked, and his voice came out sharper than he would have liked.
Tabscoob slowly turned around and looked at him with a serious expression, that of one who has measured each word before speaking it.
—Write him a letter —he said—. A letter in your language, with your name, with the signs that only your friend would recognize. I will have that letter delivered to Chief Na' Chan Kan. If the man the merchants speak of is truly the man you seek, he will receive it. And if he is your friend, he will answer you. Then you will know the truth.
Aguilar felt a lump in his throat. For years he had sought answers, and now, at last, someone offered him a path. Not a rumor, not a vague hope, but a concrete gesture, a hand extended from the world he had left behind. He bowed his head in gratitude, and when he looked up, his eyes shone with a light that the darkness could not extinguish.
—I thank you, Tabscoob —he said, his voice barely a whisper—. You do not know how much this means to me.
The chief nodded without a word. The sunlight had nearly vanished, and the first stars began to appear above the temple, twinkling like small lights of hope in the firmament. Aguilar knew it was time to return to the Spanish camp. He took a few steps, but then Tabscoob's voice stopped him.
—Wait —said Tabscoob—. Tell Cortés that tomorrow I will visit him and I will answer as much as I can to everything he wants to know.
Aguilar turned and nodded. In the twilight, the two men looked at each other for a moment. Then they said goodbye. On the way back, the echo of Tabscoob's words resonated in his head: *Na' Chan Kan. The Warrior of the Celestial Serpent.*
Aguilar returned to the small stone room he had occupied since the Spanish took the city. It was one of the abandoned Maya houses, near the plaza, with a single room, a stone hearth in the center, and a hole in the roof through which the smoke escaped. The previous owners had left before the Spanish arrived. Only broken utensils remained and a palm mat that he had spread in a corner.
He sat on the ground, leaned his back against the limestone wall, and watched the flickering flame of the candle. The light danced on the bare walls, casting shadows that moved like ghosts. Outside, the silence of the jungle enveloped everything.
He took the quill and paper that the scribe had lent him. He had not written in Spanish for years. The first letters of Castilian came out awkwardly, but little by little his hand remembered. He put in the letter signs that only Guerrero would recognize: the name of the ship on which they had been shipwrecked, the name of the captain, the exact place where they had been separated, and a question that only his friend would know how to answer.
When he finished, he carefully folded the paper and tucked it into the fold of his shirt. Tomorrow, after Tabscoob's visit to Cortés, he would deliver it personally. And then, only then, the waiting would begin.
---
Chapter XII
The Visit to Cortés
The next morning, Tabscoob left the small limestone structure where he had taken refuge. He was accompanied by a young warrior, his nephew, who walked silently at his side, carrying nothing but his own shadow.
They crossed the area where the Maya had built their new huts of straw and mud. The smell of smoke and cooking food floated in the air, mingled with the scent of the jungle that stretched beyond the last houses. Some men and women who were already awake greeted them with brief gestures, but no one asked where they were going.
They had barely left the last huts behind when they saw Aguilar waiting for them by the path, leaning on a fallen trunk. The interpreter wore the same white shirt as the night before and the rosary hanging from his neck. When he saw them approaching, he straightened up and came out to meet them.
—Good morning, Tabscoob —he said in Maya, with a gesture of greeting—. I thought it would be better if I went with you to the temple. That way you won't have to explain to the soldiers who you are.
Tabscoob nodded. He said nothing, but he appreciated the gesture. Walking alongside the interpreter would save him questions and misunderstandings.
—Let us go, then —he replied, and the three set out together.
The path to the temple where Cortés had established his new quarters was dusty and full of hoofprints and sandal marks. They walked in silence for most of the way. Tabscoob's nephew observed Aguilar with curiosity, as if that man with graying beard and strange accent seemed to him as fascinating as he was unsettling.
Since the night before, Tabscoob had meditated on what he would say to the Spanish captain. Aguilar had warned him that Cortés was not a man of roundabout ways, that he preferred clear answers and concrete gestures. But Tabscoob knew that, for a Maya chief, words were like seeds: they had to be planted carefully so that they would bear fruit.
When they reached the entrance to the former audience hall of the temple, two Spanish soldiers stood guard by the stone doorway. Their breastplates gleamed in the morning light, and their arquebuses rested against the wall, but their hands did not stray from the hilts. Seeing the Maya chief, one of them stepped forward and raised his hand, stopping them.
The soldier examined them with distrust. His gaze fell on the nephew, on Tabscoob's empty hands, and then on Aguilar, who walked just behind them.
—They are with me —said Aguilar in Spanish.
The soldier recognized him, relaxed his shoulders, and nodded. He stepped aside, and the other followed suit, leaving the doorway clear.
—Enter —said the first, with a nod—. The captain is waiting for you.
Tabscoob did not understand the words, but the tone and the gesture of stepping aside were enough. He crossed the threshold, followed by his nephew and Aguilar.
The dimness of the temple smelled of old incense and wax, but also of ink and leather, the smells the Spanish had brought with them. In the center, a large wooden table was covered with maps, sheets of paper, and small metal figures representing ships and soldiers.
Beside the table, standing, was Hernán Cortés. He wore a dark doublet with gathered sleeves, and his fingers rested on a rolled parchment. But what made Tabscoob stop was not the captain, but the woman who remained at his side, near the door, with her hands crossed over her stomach.
Malintzin.
The young woman—for that is what she was, a girl of about twenty, with an impassive face and black eyes that watched without blinking—was there, by the entrance, like another shadow in the gloom. Tabscoob had not expected to see her. He had heard rumors that Cortés kept her close, that he had received her as part of the tribute from the coastal Maya, but seeing her there, dressed in a cotton skirt and a dark shawl, reminded him that the Spanish did not travel alone. They brought with them people from these lands, people who spoke languages that he sometimes understood and sometimes did not.
Beside Cortés, moreover, stood two other men: a young captain with blond hair and a defiant gaze, and a friar in a brown habit who held a crucifix between his fingers. Tabscoob did not know their names, but he sensed they were important.
Cortés looked up and smiled. It was not a kind smile, but that of a man who calculates every gesture.
—Tabscoob —he said, and his voice echoed in the chamber—. Thank you for coming.
Aguilar translated into Maya, and Tabscoob nodded without lowering his gaze.
—You have brought your nephew —Cortés observed, and the young man took a step back, instinctively.
—He is my companion —Tabscoob replied calmly.
Cortés narrowed his eyes, but did not ask further. Instead, he turned to the table and pointed with his finger at a point on the north coast, where the map showed an irregular line broken by small bays.
—Tabscoob —he said, changing his tone—. The Totonacs. What do you know of them?
The Maya chief approached the table, although the Spanish strokes were foreign to him. He saw mountains drawn in ink, rivers he did not recognize, names written in a language he could not read. But the question was clear.
—They are peoples of the north —he replied, resting one hand on the edge of the table—. They speak another language, but the merchants know them. They have gold, and also fear of the Mexica.
Aguilar translated into Spanish, and Cortés nodded, satisfied.
—Good —he said, and that single word sounded like a verdict—. That is exactly what I need.
He straightened up and walked around the table. The blond captain followed him with his eyes; the friar, on the other hand, kept his eyes down, as if praying in silence.
—Tabscoob —Cortés continued, turning toward the chief—. I will depart for the north in a week. I am going to see those Totonacs. But you will not come with me.
Tabscoob looked up, surprised. His right hand instinctively sought the side of his waist, but the leather pouch was not yet there.
—No? —he asked, and his voice came out sharper than he had intended.
—No —Cortés replied, firmly—. You will stay here, in your land. You will govern your people, as before. But in my name. And when I need provisions or passage to the south, you will give them to me.
The silence grew heavy. Tabscoob's nephew held his breath. Malintzin fixed her gaze on the chief, and for the first time, her lips moved. She spoke in a language that Tabscoob recognized instantly—the same one spoken by the merchants of the highlands, the same one he had understood since childhood through trade—in a low voice that barely reached his ears.
—Do you know the great lord of the Mexica? —she asked, referring to Moctezuma.
Tabscoob looked at her, surprised that she addressed him in that language. He replied in the same tongue, cautiously.
—I know of him by hearsay. He is powerful. But I have never been to his city.
Malintzin nodded slowly. Then, turning toward Cortés and the others, she pointed at Tabscoob and pronounced in Spanish, with great effort and awkwardness, the only word she had managed to learn that morning:
—Moctezuma... —she said, and then repeated the name clearly—. Moctezuma.
Cortés stood motionless. The blond captain frowned. The friar looked up from his crucifix.
—What did she say? —asked Cortés, looking at Aguilar.
Aguilar, who had also understood the exchange, translated into Spanish:
—The young woman says that Tabscoob knows Moctezuma, or at least knows of him. He has not been to Tenochtitlan, but the merchants have told him of the emperor.
Cortés smiled again, but this time the smile was more intense, almost hungry.
—Tabscoob —he said, approaching the chief—. Do you know anything more of Moctezuma? Of his army, his cities, his riches?
Tabscoob felt the weight of the question. He looked at Malintzin, who held his gaze without blinking, and understood that she had wanted to help, or perhaps lay a trap. He did not know. But the name of Moctezuma had awakened an interest he had not expected.
—I know he is feared —he replied, and Aguilar translated—. That he has countless warriors and that his city is built on a lake. But I have never been there. I only know what the merchants tell.
Cortés took two steps back and stood looking at the map, as if tracing an invisible route.
—Good —he said at last, more to himself than to the others—. Good.
He turned to the table and unrolled another map, a smaller one, where the north coast was drawn in greater detail. Without looking at Tabscoob, he added:
—Then tomorrow I will send a messenger to the Totonacs. Let them know that I come in peace. And if Moctezuma finds out, so be it. Perhaps it is better that he knows I have friends everywhere.
—And if the Totonacs do not want to receive you? —asked the blond captain, for the first time.
Cortés raised his head and smiled again, but this time the smile was cold.
—Then I will go in another spirit. But first, let them know that they can have an ally against the Mexica. That will make them think.
Tabscoob understood then that this man sought not only gold or lands. He sought enemies of his enemies, and he was willing to use the Maya and the Totonacs as pieces in a game they barely understood. And Malintzin, with that single word, had lit a flame that Tabscoob did not know if he could extinguish.
Cortés gestured toward the door. The meeting was over.
Tabscoob, his nephew, and Aguilar left the temple together. Crossing the threshold, the Maya chief felt the sunlight on his face and breathed deeply. They walked a few steps in silence, moving away from the stone facade, until they were out of the soldiers' reach.
Then Aguilar stopped. He reached into the fold of his shirt and pulled out a small folded paper, sealed with a wax seal.
—Tabscoob —he said in Maya, extending his hand—. This is for you. The letter I promised you last night.
The chief turned, surprised. He took the envelope, felt the weight of the paper in his fingers, and looked up.
—Is this the letter for your friend?
—Yes —Aguilar replied, in a low voice—. I have written what I told you. Signs that only he will recognize. If the man the merchants speak of is truly Gonzalo Guerrero, this letter will reach his hands. And if it is he, he will know that I am still alive and that I seek him.
Tabscoob fell silent. He slid the envelope into the folds of his blanket, against his chest, and secured it with a knot of the fabric.
—It will arrive —he said then, and his voice was firm—. Na' Chan Kan's village is just a few days' journey from here. In three or four days you will have news. If your friend responds, we will know then.
Aguilar nodded, and his eyes shone with a light that Tabscoob had not seen in him before. It was not the light of gold or power. It was the light of hope, the same one that had been extinguished for eight years.
—I thank you, Tabscoob —said Aguilar, his voice barely a whisper—. You do not know how much this means to me.
The chief nodded without a word. Then he looked at his nephew, who had observed the scene in silence.
—Let us go —he said.
They walked back to the village, leaving behind the temple, the maps, the iron weapons, and the dark eyes of Malintzin, who from the doorway followed them with her gaze until they disappeared among the stone houses and the first shadows of the afternoon.
---
Three days passed. Aguilar fulfilled his obligations in the camp: he supervised Malintzin's first Spanish lessons, attended Mass in the temple church, translated the words of the Maya merchants who arrived with news from the interior. But his mind was far away, lost in the southern jungle, in the village of a man who perhaps no longer remembered who he had been.
Cortés, for his part, kept the army busy with preparations for the march toward the coast. The soldiers repaired armor, loaded barrels of water and gunpowder, and saddled the horses. The camp buzzed with activity, but Aguilar moved through the bustle like a ghost.
On the third day, the emissary Tabscoob had sent returned. Aguilar, who was in the scribe's tent reviewing the maps Cortés had ordered copied, saw the messenger approaching from a distance. He went out to meet him with a heavy heart.
The emissary was a young man, with a tired face and dusty feet. He carried no letter in his hand. Only a grave expression.
—What news do you bring? —Aguilar asked in Maya.
The emissary lowered his gaze.
—I have been to Na' Chan Kan's village. I delivered your letter. He read it.
—And what did he say?
The emissary hesitated.
—Nothing, señor. He read it in silence. Then he slowly folded it, placed it on the fire of his hearth, and burned it. When he finished, he told me: "Tell whoever sent you that I am not who he believes. That the man he knew died many years ago in this jungle. That he forget about me."
Aguilar felt an emptiness in his chest. He leaned against the post of a hut to keep from falling.
—Was that all? —he asked, his voice breaking.
—Yes, señor. Only that. Then he turned his back on me and entered his hut.
Aguilar fell silent. Guerrero's words echoed in his memory: *I am no longer who he believes I was. The man he knew died.* But something inside him refused to accept it. It could not be true. Not after so many years of searching for him, of having given him up for dead, of having prayed for his soul. He could not be left with those words as his only farewell.
That same night, Aguilar sought out Tabscoob in his newly recovered residence. The chief, although he had regained his house, had not regained his power. He was sitting in the inner courtyard, his eyes fixed on the starry sky.
—Tabscoob —said Aguilar—. I have received Guerrero's response.
The chief looked at him without surprise.
—And?
—He tells me that he is no longer who I believed. That the man I knew died. That I should forget him.
Tabscoob fell silent. Then he let out a dry laugh.
—But you do not intend to forget him, do you?
Aguilar shook his head.
—No. I cannot. Not after everything I have lived to get here. I need to look him in the face and know if it is true. I cannot settle for a message. I need to go to his village.
Tabscoob looked at him for a long while.
—And what do you plan to do when you stand before him?
—I do not know —Aguilar admitted—. But I have to go. I cannot live with the doubt. I need to know who he is now, even if he says he is no longer the same.
Tabscoob nodded slowly.
—You will go with my nephew —he said—. He will accompany you with four men. They will guide you to your friend's village. The village is only two days' journey from here. In five days you can go and return.
Aguilar looked at the young man, who had remained silent until then.
—Your nephew?
—Yes —replied Tabscoob, with a voice that mixed pride and concern—. I want him to see that there are men who have learned to respect our land, even if they are not from it.
Tomorrow, at dawn, the men will be ready. And if you find your friend, tell him that a defeated chief of Potonchán sends him greetings. But above all, Aguilar, tell him also that you have not forgotten who he was. And that you have come to remind him.
Aguilar bowed his head.
—Thank you, Tabscoob. I am in your debt.
The chief nodded and withdrew into his house.
---
Aguilar walked directly toward Cortés's tent. The captain was still awake, reviewing maps on a wooden table, with a flickering candle barely illuminating his face. Seeing Aguilar enter with an agitated expression, he raised an eyebrow and said in a mocking tone.
—What is it, friar? Are the Indians attacking?
—No, señor. I believe I know where Gonzalo Guerrero is.
Cortés set down the map and looked at him with interest.
—The one who came to these lands with you?
—The same, señor. He has become a Maya chief. He has a wife and children.
The captain was silent for a long moment.
—And what do you plan to do now?
Aguilar swallowed.
—Señor, I beg you to allow me to go find him. To see him and know what became of him.
Cortés looked at him for a long time.
—How much time do you need?
—Five days, señor, at most a week. Tabscoob has given me four men who know the way. The village is close. I will go and return in five days.
Cortés nodded slowly.
—So be it. But listen well, friar: I cannot wait for you indefinitely. The expedition will depart for the coast within a week. That gives you plenty of time to go and return. If you want to come with us, you will have to catch up with us. I will leave a two-man escort for you at the river's mouth, with provisions so that you can follow the expedition's trail north when you return. There you will find us.
Aguilar bowed his head.
—I will do so, señor. I promise you.
He left the tent with his heart beating hard in his chest.
---
Upon reaching the camp, Aguilar did not go to rest. He sought out the scribe, that man with ink-stained hands who had read the Requerimiento on the beach weeks before. He found him in his tent, bent over a parchment.
The scribe's name was Alonso de Torres, though few in the camp knew his full name. To the soldiers he was simply "the scribe," that quiet middle-aged man who spent his days copying maps and drafting letters. His hair was gray, his beard unkempt, and his back showed a slight curvature from leaning over tables and desks. Of slender build, he was no warrior; he had never wielded a sword. His place was in the rearguard, among the document chests and leather inkwells.
But what he lacked in physical strength he made up for with a prodigious memory and a clear, precise hand that Cortés valued more than many soldiers. Alonso de Torres had been a minor cleric in his youth, before abandoning the habit for the scribe's trade. He knew Latin and some Greek, and in Seville he had taught children of merchants. Perhaps that was why he did not look at the Maya with contempt, as most soldiers did. He did not see them as beasts or lost souls, but as men and women with whom one had to come to an understanding. That was why Aguilar trusted him.
Aguilar stopped at the entrance of the tent.
—Brother —he said, entering without announcing himself—. I need to speak with you.
The scribe looked up, surprised.
—Father Aguilar. What brings you here at this hour?
—The captain general has charged you with teaching Spanish to the Maya girl, Malintzin.
The scribe nodded slowly.
—So the captain informed me. If God wills, I will begin with the basics tomorrow.
—Good —said Aguilar, sitting down in front of him—. But I depart at dawn for the south. A mission that may take me five days. I will not be able to be here to supervise the lessons as the captain asked me. That is why I want to tell you this: do not limit yourself to teaching her the names of things. Teach her also to listen. Have her repeat the phrases she hears, even if she does not fully understand them. Let her become accustomed to the sound of our language. When I return, I will take charge of giving meaning to those words.
The scribe was silent for a moment.
—I will do it, father. But... what if she resists? She is a proud girl.
—She will not resist —said Aguilar—. Because she knows that we are her only opportunity. And because she is intelligent. Learn with her; do not give her orders as if she were a slave. Make her ask you, correct you, make mistakes without fear. That way she will learn faster.
The scribe nodded.
—I will do so, father. Take care on your journey. May God keep you.
Aguilar rose and placed a hand on the scribe's shoulder.
—And you, brother, take care of her. Because she, more than any sword, will open the doors of this world for us.
Having said this, he left the tent. The night was dark and the wind carried the smell of smoke and jungle. Aguilar breathed deeply. The next day, at dawn, he would depart south, toward the meeting with his past. But at least he knew that in his absence, the seed of Spanish was being sown in Malintzin's heart.
---
Chapter XIII
The Road to the South
Aguilar departed at dawn. The sun was barely rising over the jungle when he and the five men—the four warriors Tabscoob had given him, plus the young Ix Balam—crossed the last boundary of Potonchán and entered the path leading south.
The oldest among them, named Balam—Jaguar, in Maya—led the way. He was a man of about forty, with weathered skin and calloused hands, and a scar that crossed his chest from shoulder to rib. He knew the southern paths like the palm of his hand.
—The road is short —said Balam in Maya, without turning around—. Two days' march to Na' Chan Kan's village. There we will rest and seek your friend.
Aguilar nodded. He did not speak much during the journey. He walked with his head down, lost in his thoughts, while the Maya advanced in silence around him. The jungle was thick and humid, and the sun barely filtered through the treetops. Howler monkeys screamed from above, and the ground was covered with rotting leaves and roots that twisted like snakes.
Aguilar felt the weight of the years he had spent among the Maya. His feet, accustomed to the stones of the temples and the packed earth of the cities, soon adapted to the mud and roots. The Maya warriors observed him with respect. He was not a soft dzul, they thought. He was a man who knew how to walk.
Ix Balam walked at the rear, just behind Aguilar. He did not speak. But Aguilar felt his gaze on the back of his neck, like a silent weight. From time to time he would turn and see him observing the surroundings with the same attention with which he observed the men around him. He was learning. Memory. Like his uncle.
Toward evening, Balam raised his hand to stop the march. He pointed to some tracks in the mud.
—Jaguar —he said in a low voice—. Large. Passed recently.
The other warriors tensed their spears. Balam followed the tracks with his eyes and then shrugged.
—It has gone —he said—. But tonight we will have a high fire.
They camped in a clearing. Aguilar did not sleep well. Every sound of the jungle seemed to him the roar of a beast. But at dawn, when he woke and saw the Maya warriors snoring by the embers, he felt almost ashamed of his fear.
—Is it always like this? —he asked Balam as they resumed the march.
Balam smiled, showing his teeth stained with chicle.
—Always —he said—. But you have survived eight years in these lands. That means the jaguars do not want you. Or that you are too thin for their taste.
Aguilar could not help but smile.
---
On the second day, at sunset, they arrived at Guerrero's village.
The village was small, with a few dozen palm huts, surrounded by corn and bean fields. The smoke of the fires rose in the air, and children ran between the houses.
Aguilar stopped at the entrance. His heart beat strongly. Eight years of waiting.
Balam spoke with some warriors who were on guard. They pointed toward the center of the village, where a hut larger than the others stood under the shade of a ceiba tree.
—There —said Balam—. Your friend is there.
Aguilar walked slowly toward the hut. His legs trembled. Upon reaching the entrance, he stopped. He could hear the sound of a spear carving wood, the rhythmic scraping of obsidian against the grain.
Aguilar took a deep breath. He said to himself: *Whatever I find, I must see it. I have traveled two days through the jungle. I cannot return without knowing.*
He cleared his throat.
Guerrero looked up.
The two men looked at each other in silence.
—Gonzalo —Aguilar whispered.
Guerrero stood motionless. The spear fell to the ground with a dull thud. Then, slowly, he rose to his feet.
He was not the Gonzalo Aguilar remembered. That thin, pale man with the unkempt beard and eyes full of fear had disappeared. In his place stood an imposing warrior, a Maya lord. His face was tattooed with black and red lines that traced a stylized jaguar around his eyes. His ears were pierced, and in the lobes hung disks of green jade. He wore a necklace of jaguar fangs and a gold pectoral representing Kukulkán. Quetzal feathers hung from his arms.
But his eyes were still the same.
—Jerónimo —he said, and his voice was deep, grave—. What are you doing here?
—I have come to find you —Aguilar replied—. Tabscoob told me you were here. I traveled two days through the jungle to see you. My letter... you burned it. But I could not remain without knowing why.
Guerrero looked at him without blinking.
—And why have you come? To take me back?
—No —said Aguilar—. I have come to see you. Only that. To know that you are alive. To know if you are happy. To understand why you burned my letter.
Guerrero fell silent. Then, slowly, he stepped forward and embraced his old friend.
—I have missed my brother, Jerónimo.
Aguilar felt the warmth of the embrace and the weight of Guerrero's tattoos against his chest. He closed his eyes. The tears he had held back throughout the journey finally flowed.
—I have missed you too, Gonzalo.
Aguilar turned and looked for Ix Balam with his eyes. The young man stood at the edge of the clearing, observing the scene in silence. His eyes had grown deeper, as if he were storing every moment in his memory.
mvf.
