Chapter XV
The Conversation
That night, Guerrero and Aguilar sat by the fire, in the courtyard of the main house of the village. The house was raised on a stone platform, a few steps from the riverbank. The night was warm and humid, and the sky was thick with stars. The jungle roared with its thousand invisible voices. On the lintel of the house, a carving of a feathered serpent watched over the entrance.
The village was not entirely asleep. By the canoes stranded in the mud, a man was patiently mending a net. Now and then, the bark of a dog or the cry of a child came from one of the neighboring houses.
A few steps away, in the shadows of the courtyard, Balam and the three Maya warriors had settled around a small fire. One of them, a young man with broad shoulders and an old scar on his cheekbone, named Kan Ek, was sharpening his spear with an obsidian stone, without ceasing to listen. The other two, even younger, shared a bowl of atole and spoke in low voices. Ix Balam, Tabscoob’s nephew, remained standing, a little apart, watching the scene with a silent attention that did not escape anyone.
Guerrero greeted Aguilar with a brief embrace, without words, and then invited him to sit by the fire. For a while, neither of them spoke. They limited themselves to watching the embers, as if silence were a language they both knew and that neither wanted to break first. At last, Aguilar decided.
“Why did you decide not to see me?” he asked.
Guerrero was silent for a moment. He took a stick and stirred the embers.
“Because of what you bring. Your voice, your face… everything takes me back to the shipwreck. I didn’t want to remember what has been left behind. Because I knew that if I saw you, it would hurt. And I didn’t want to feel that pain.”
“And now that I’m here? Does it hurt?”
Guerrero smiled, a sad smile.
“Yes. But it’s a different pain. It’s the pain of knowing that there is still someone who remembers how I was.”
“I only want to understand why you stayed,” said Aguilar.
Guerrero nodded and looked at the fire.
“I have a wife here,” he said. “A Maya woman who loved me when I had nothing. I have three children, Jerónimo. They are my blood, my life. Do you think I can abandon them to go to a world that is no longer mine?”
He pointed north, toward where the Spaniards were camped.
“Those men who have come to these lands, do you think they come as friends? No. They come to steal everything they can. I know how we are. I have been one of them. And I don’t want to be part of that.”
“Cortés is different,” Aguilar insisted.
“Do you think God is in the gold they seek?” Guerrero let out a tired laugh. “No, Jerónimo. Cortés is the same as all the others. He arrived, burned the temple of Ixchel in Cozumel, killed our warriors in Champotón. And this is only the beginning.”
At that moment, Zazil came out of the house. She was Guerrero’s wife. She had long, straight hair, gathered in a braid. She wore a white huipil embroidered with figures of serpents and flowers, and over her shoulders she carried a blue cotton mantle. Her face was serious, but not severe. On her wrists she wore shell bracelets.
“So this is your friend,” she said in Maya.
Guerrero nodded.
“This is Jerónimo. The man I told you about.”
Zazil approached Aguilar with a clay bowl full of balché. She offered it to him with both hands, as one offers to a guest of honor.
“Drink,” she said. “You have walked a long way.”
Aguilar took the bowl and drank. The taste was strange, sweet and bitter at the same time, with a hint of fermented honey and tree bark. It was not unpleasant. It was, he thought, the taste of a land that was not his.
“Thank you,” he said in Maya, clumsily.
Zazil inclined her head, without smiling, but with a gesture that Aguilar interpreted as approval. Then she sat down beside Guerrero, in silence, and waited. Aguilar returned the bowl to Zazil. She drank and then passed it to Guerrero.
“My husband has told me that you are his brother,” said Zazil.
“Yes,” Aguilar replied. “We were shipwrecked off these coasts. Of the whole crew, only he and I remain. That binds us like blood.”
Zazil nodded.
“Then you are welcome in my house. Tomorrow you can speak with my husband before you leave.”
The three of them remained silent for a moment, looking at the fire. The embers crackled. Somewhere, a night bird let out a long, mournful cry. From the Maya campfire came the murmur of a low conversation: Balam was explaining something to Kan Ek, pointing to the path by which they had come. Ix Balam remained standing, motionless, his gaze fixed on Guerrero.
On the shore, a canoe slid gently toward the main house. An older man, broad-shouldered and leather-skinned, jumped ashore with a bundle of fresh fish. When he saw Guerrero by the fire, he raised a hand in greeting and said something in Maya. Guerrero responded with a brief gesture. The fisherman left the bundle by the door of the house and moved away toward the other dwellings, without stopping. As he passed the Maya campfire, he greeted Balam with a nod, and Balam returned the greeting without ceasing to speak.
“And what will become of you, Jerónimo?” Guerrero asked at last. “Will you return with them? With Cortés?”
Aguilar looked at the fire. He thought of the ship, of the soldiers’ faces, of the cross they wore on their chests and the sword they wore at their belts. He thought of dawn Mass, of Latin, of bells. And then he thought of that night, in the courtyard of the cacique’s house, of the balché he had just drunk.
“I don’t know,” he said. “I no longer know.”
Guerrero looked at him for a long time. Then he placed his hand on Aguilar’s shoulder.
“Then stay tonight in my house,” he said. “Tomorrow we will see what the day brings. There is always room for you here.”
Zazil rose without a word and went into the house. She returned shortly with a cotton blanket and some cold tamales wrapped in leaves, and a jícara of water. She laid the blanket on the ground, by the fire, for Aguilar, and handed them the food. They ate in silence, without haste. Then Zazil sat down again beside her husband.
Aguilar lay back on the blanket. The sky was still thick with stars. The river still flowed, slow and dark, toward the sea. The jungle still roared. And for the first time in many days, he felt he could sleep without fear.
“Good night, Gonzalo,” he said.
“Good night, Jerónimo,” Guerrero replied.
And the fire kept burning, small and tenacious, in the middle of the Maya night.
---
Chapter XVI
The Farewell
The village was beginning to wake. On the riverbank, three canoes were already gliding through the water, with fishermen casting their nets in silence. A skinny yellow dog went down to the river, drank long, and climbed back up, shaking the water from its back.
The fire was almost out, barely some embers covered with ash. Beside it, wrapped in his blanket, Balam, the old warrior who had guided them through the jungle, was already awake, sitting and silent. Further away, leaning against the wall of the house, were Kan Ek and the other two Maya, also awake, with their weapons within reach. Ix Balam, by contrast, had spent the night sitting with his back against a post, his gaze fixed on the door of the cacique’s house, as if he had kept watch until dawn.
Aguilar sat up carefully. The cotton blanket Zazil had spread for him slipped from his shoulders. He looked toward the house. The door was half-open, and inside he could hear the soft murmur of voices and the rhythmic tapping of hands on the metate. A skinny yellow dog dozed by the threshold, and in the background, in the shadows, he heard the brief cry of a child waking.
He got up and went to the edge of the courtyard to relieve himself. As he passed the Maya campfire, he saw that Kan Ek was awake, sitting with his spear across his knees, looking at the jungle. The warrior greeted him with a slight nod. Aguilar stopped for a moment.
“Is everything all right?” he asked in Maya.
“Everything is all right,” Kan Ek replied. “The jungle is calm. Too calm, perhaps. But it’s a good sign.”
Aguilar nodded and continued on his way. When he returned, the door of the house had opened fully and Zazil was coming out, followed by two small children. The older one, a boy of about six, had the black hair and dark eyes of his mother. The girl, younger, about four, clung to the skirt of the huipil. Behind them appeared a third child, even smaller, who could barely walk and clung to his brother’s hand.
The three looked at Aguilar with curiosity. The older one stepped forward and said something in Maya that Aguilar did not understand. Zazil smiled and placed her hand on his head.
“He asks if you are the man his father talks about,” she translated. “The one who came from the land of the dzules.”
Aguilar crouched down to the child’s height.
“Yes,” he said in Maya, slowly. “It’s me. My name is Jerónimo.”
The boy looked at him seriously, then nodded and turned back to his mother, satisfied. The girl, however, remained hidden behind Zazil’s huipil, watching him out of the corner of her eye. The little one, sitting on the ground, got his hands covered in ash and looked at them gravely, as if he had just discovered a mystery.
At that moment Guerrero came out of the house. He wore a clean white cotton tunic and his hair was tied back. His eyes were still heavy with sleep, but his expression was serene. When he saw Aguilar, he smiled.
“I see you’ve already met my children,” he said. “The oldest is named Chan Kin. The girl, Ixchel. And the little one, Ah Kin.”
“Good names,” said Aguilar.
“They are names from this land,” Guerrero replied. “Like mine.”
Zazil went back into the house and returned accompanied by two women. Among the three of them they carried two large baskets, a jar of water and another of fermented drink, and several bowls and jícaras. They set everything on the flat stone that served as a table, beside the fire. In the baskets there were fruit, corn cakes, tamales wrapped in leaves, and cured fish. The children sat on the ground, around the stone, and ate in silence. Guerrero and Aguilar sat facing each other.
“Did you sleep well?” Guerrero asked.
“Better than in many days,” said Aguilar.
They ate without haste. The fruit was sweet; the cured fish, salty; the corn cakes, dry but good; the tamales, tender and still warm. The fermented drink passed from hand to hand and cheered the men. The two women served the food and poured the water and the drink into the bowls and jícaras.
Balam and the other three Maya warriors approached without haste. Kan Ek, the one with the scar on his cheekbone, took a jícara and drank without taking his eyes off Guerrero, measuring him. The other two ate in silence, glancing now and then toward the house, as if it were hard for them to believe that this tattooed white man was the master of all that. Ix Balam, by contrast, barely tasted a bite: he remained seated a little apart, watching Guerrero with a fixedness that was not hostile, but intense.
When they finished, the two women removed the bowls, the baskets, and the jars, and went back into the house. Zazil stayed in the courtyard. The children scattered: Chan Kin went over to the Maya campfire and stood staring at Kan Ek’s spear with wide eyes. Ixchel sat down beside her mother, her head resting on her lap. Little Ah Kin crawled over to the skinny dog and pulled one of its ears.
On the shore, a canoe approached the main house slowly. The same fisherman from the night before jumped ashore and left a new bundle of fish by the door. He looked at Aguilar with curiosity, but said nothing. Guerrero made a brief gesture, and the man rowed away downstream, toward the other houses. On the opposite bank, a group of children ran chasing a dog that carried something in its mouth. Their shouts came muffled by the water.
Then Guerrero turned to Aguilar.
“Have you decided?” he asked.
Aguilar looked at the fire, which was still burning.
“I can’t stay,” he said. “I have to go back. I have to give an account of what I have seen.”
Guerrero nodded slowly.
“I knew it,” he said. “I knew it since last night.”
“And you?” Aguilar asked. “Is there nothing I can say to make you come with me?”
Guerrero shook his head.
“I already told you, Jerónimo. I have a wife, I have children, I have a people who recognize me as their cacique. I cannot abandon them. And I don’t want to return to a world that no longer belongs to me.”
“Cortés would receive you with honors,” Aguilar insisted. “You could be an interpreter, an adviser. You could help keep this from becoming a slaughter.”
“Help?” Guerrero smiled bitterly. “Help the Spaniards conquer better? No, Jerónimo. I know men like Cortés. They don’t come to talk. They come to subdue. And I don’t want to be the one who shows them the way.”
“Then what do I tell him?”
“Tell him that the peoples of the highlands are powerful and will not let themselves be conquered easily. But if he seeks allies, he should speak with the Totonacs, who hate the Mexica. Tell him to use language and diplomacy before the sword.”
“And if he wants to come for you?”
Guerrero smiled.
“Tell him that I was a soldier before I was Na’ Chan Kan. I know his tactics and his weapons. Let him come if he dares.”
Aguilar was silent. He looked at the river, which still flowed slowly toward the sea. Then he looked at Guerrero.
“Stay today,” said Guerrero. “Tomorrow morning you can leave. The roads are not going to move.”
Aguilar shook his head.
“I can’t, Gonzalo. Cortés is not going to wait for me. The expedition leaves for the coast in a few days, and if I am not back before then, they will go on without me. He will leave me an escort at the mouth of the river, but if I delay, I will lose it. And then there will be no way to catch up with them.”
Guerrero looked at him for a long time. He did not insist.
“Then it will be this morning,” he said.
“This morning,” Aguilar repeated.
There was a silence. Then, in a lower voice, Aguilar asked:
“And what do I say about you if someone asks?”
Guerrero lowered his gaze. For a moment, the Maya cacique disappeared and only the man remained. He did not answer immediately. He looked at the fire, and in his eyes eight years of silence gathered.
“Tell them that the soldier they knew no longer exists,” he said at last, his voice barely a whisper. “That the man I am now found his home. And that one is not always from the place where he is born, but from the place where he decides to stay.”
There was a long silence. The children, who did not understand the words but understood the tone, remained still. Chan Kin stopped looking at the spear. Ixchel lifted her head from her mother’s lap. Zazil lowered her eyes.
Then Guerrero stood up. There was no embrace yet. He turned to Zazil and said something in a low voice. Zazil nodded, went into the house, and returned with a bundle of corn tortillas and dried fish, wrapped in a banana leaf and tied with henequen fiber. She approached Aguilar and placed it in his hands with both of hers.
“Take this,” she said. “The road is long.”
Aguilar took the bundle and put it in his bag.
“Thank you, Zazil,” he said. “For everything.”
Zazil looked at him with her large, serious eyes. She did not smile. But she did not look away either.
“Don’t forget it, dzul,” she said. “Because if you return, you will have to answer for what you left here.”
Aguilar held her gaze for a moment. He did not ask what she meant. There was no need.
“I will remember,” he said.
Zazil inclined her head, satisfied, and stepped back. Her part was finished. Now it was Guerrero’s turn.
Guerrero was standing in the courtyard, beside the dead fire. Chan Kin had come close and was holding his hand. Ixchel leaned against his leg. Zazil, a little behind, held little Ah Kin in her arms.
Then Ix Balam stepped forward.
“Na’ Chan Kan,” he said in Maya, in a firm voice that surprised everyone. “My uncle, Tabscoob, cacique of Potonchán, gave me a message for you before we left. He says he has heard of you. That he knows you were a slave like your friend, that you learned our language, that you took a Maya wife and raised children in this land. He says that you, like him, have found your place. And that a man who chooses to stay, even if he was born elsewhere, deserves respect. He also tells you not to forget who you are, even if you have changed your skin.”
Guerrero looked at him for a long time. The young man’s words had touched something deep in him. It was not the message of a defeated cacique. It was the recognition of a man who understood his choice because he himself, in his defeat, had had to make his own.
“Tell your uncle,” Guerrero replied in Maya, in a grave voice, “that I thank him for his words. And tell him not to forget that a defeated cacique can also be an ally.”
Ix Balam inclined his head and withdrew.
Guerrero turned to Aguilar. This time he did embrace him. A brief embrace, with the weight of eight years on both their shoulders.
“Go with God, Jerónimo,” he said.
“And you, Gonzalo,” Aguilar replied.
Then Guerrero called two of his men and gave them a brief order in Maya. The men nodded and ran toward the shore, where several canoes were stranded in the mud. Aguilar looked at him, surprised.
“The return journey by land is long and dangerous,” said Guerrero. “The river is faster and safer. I will give you two canoes to go down to Potonchán. From there you can follow the Spaniards’ trail north.”
Aguilar was about to protest, but Guerrero raised a hand.
“It is not a gift. It is a loan. When you finish what you have to do, return them. Or better yet, come back yourself to bring them.”
Aguilar held his gaze. Then he nodded.
“Thank you, Gonzalo.”
Guerrero’s men pushed two canoes into the water. They were medium-sized canoes, the kind fishermen used to navigate the river, with hulls reinforced with resin and new moorings. Balam and Kan Ek approached to inspect them. Ix Balam looked at Aguilar, waiting for instructions.
Aguilar walked toward the shore, followed by Balam, Kan Ek, the other two Maya warriors, and Ix Balam. The two canoes were already in the water, rocked by the current. Aguilar got into the first with Ix Balam and Balam. Into the second got Kan Ek and the two young warriors. Aguilar was the last to settle in, with Zazil’s bundle still in his hand.
From the bow of the first canoe, he looked toward the courtyard. Guerrero was still standing by the dead fire, with Chan Kin at his side, the child’s hand held in his. Ixchel had come closer and leaned against his leg. Zazil, a little behind, held little Ah Kin in her arms. The four of them watched the canoes. They said nothing. There was no need.
Balam sank his paddle into the water. The first canoe slid downstream, toward the north, toward the sea. Behind it, the second canoe followed a few strokes away. The sun was not yet high. On the shore, the tapping of the metate from the neighboring house continued, indifferent, until the current and the distance drowned it out.
Aguilar did not take his eyes off Guerrero until the cacique’s figure blended into the shadow of the house. Then he turned toward the bow.
He did not look back.
---
Chapter XVII
The Return to Potonchán
Three days later, Aguilar and his guides saw Potonchán rising on the riverbank, with its plaza and its stone houses. The two canoes traveled together, rocked by the current. The city was not empty: the inhabitants had begun to return, and the streets, which weeks before had been occupied by Spanish soldiers, smelled again of corn and firewood. In the plaza, where the tents of Cortés’s men had been set up, only marks on the ground and a few remains of rope and cloth that the wind had not carried away were left.
The canoes ran aground in the mud, one beside the other. Aguilar jumped ashore first, followed by Ix Balam and Balam. From the second canoe came Kan Ek and the two young warriors. On the shore, the fishermen and the women washing clothes looked up, and some children ran toward the houses to spread the word.
Tabscoob came out to receive them. He had recovered his ruler’s garments: the embroidered cotton, the quetzal-feather headdress, the jade bracelets. He no longer wore the henequen blanket or the leather band of the days of occupation. Cortés, upon leaving, had left him the government of the city, and Tabscoob exercised it in his name. A part of his warriors had marched with the expedition north, integrated into the column as guides and scouts, because they knew the roads and rivers of the coast better than anyone.
Aguilar stopped before the cacique and the two looked at each other for a moment. There was no embrace or grand words. Tabscoob barely inclined his head, and Aguilar responded in the same way. Both knew what it had cost to get there. The cacique invited him into his house, beside the plaza, and there, seated on palm mats, with a vessel of chocolate between them, they spoke as they had weeks before.
Aguilar asked about the departure. Tabscoob told him that the Spaniards had gone north following the river, and that a good number of Chontal warriors had marched with them. Then the cacique lowered his voice.
“There is something else I want to tell you.”
Aguilar waited.
“Your captain is not going straight to Mexica lands. He will stop at Xicallanco.”
“Xicallanco?”
“A port, north of here, at the mouth of another river. It is our trading enclave. From there the maritime and river routes of the whole region are controlled. The canoes that go down the rivers, those that cross the coast, those that come and go from Yucatán… everything passes through Xicallanco.”
Tabscoob drank a sip of chocolate before continuing.
“Cortés wants to secure it before going on. If he gets an alliance there, he will have the northern routes open and the entire coast under his protection. And if he does not get it, he will have an enemy at his back. That is why he is going. It is not a simple stop along the way.”
Aguilar nodded slowly. It made sense. A man like Cortés left nothing to chance.
“And what do you know of Xicallanco?” he asked. “Will they ally with him?”
Tabscoob shook his head.
“I don’t know. They are Chontal, like us. But in Xicallanco it is not a single cacique who rules: the elders rule, the merchants, those who control the routes. They trade with everyone and marry no one. They have seen armies pass before. They know how to wait. But they also know when a balance tips. If Cortés arrives with enough strength, they may lean toward him. If not, they will close the way to him.”
“And what would you do?”
The cacique looked at him for a long time.
“I already made my choice. And my men who accompany him will speak of our alliance with Cortés. That will weigh in Xicallanco. Even so, Cortés will have to negotiate with them. And if he does not know how to negotiate, he will have a problem.”
Aguilar was silent for a moment. Then Tabscoob spoke again, this time in a different tone.
“He also left two men at the mouth of the river. With provisions for you. He said you would arrive, and that they should wait for you.”
Aguilar looked at him. He said nothing. But inside he felt something he could not name. Cortés had calculated even that. He had left men, supplies, an order. Everything foreseen. Everything measured.
“And you, Tabscoob?” he asked at last. “What are you going to do now?”
The cacique drank a sip of chocolate before answering.
“Rule. Rebuild. My warriors will return, or they will not return, but Potonchán is still here. It has always been here. And it will still be here when the Spaniards have gone, if they ever go.”
Aguilar smiled faintly. It was the first smile he had allowed himself in many days.
“Then I will stay tonight. And tomorrow I will leave for Xicallanco.”
“Tomorrow you will leave,” Tabscoob repeated, and filled both vessels again.
Outside, over the plaza, evening was falling. Children ran among the stone houses, and smoke from the kitchens rose straight toward the sky. Potonchán was breathing again.
That night, Aguilar did not sleep in the cacique’s house. He preferred to go out into the courtyard, beside the fire the servants had lit to keep the mosquitoes away, and stay there, watching the stars. The city slept. The river sounded nearby, and now and then came the distant bark of a dog or the song of a cricket. Downriver, at the mouth, two men kept watch beside a campfire. Aguilar thought of them for a moment. Then he looked at the sky again.
He did not hear the footsteps until Ix Balam was beside him. The young Maya remained standing, also looking at the sky, saying nothing. For a while, neither of them spoke. Then Ix Balam sat down on the ground, facing him, crossing his legs.
“You do not sleep,” he said in Maya.
“I cannot,” Aguilar replied.
“Are you thinking of Na’ Chan Kan?”
Aguilar looked at him, surprised by the direct question.
“Yes. Of him. And of what I leave behind. Again.”
Ix Balam nodded slowly.
“My uncle says that Na’ Chan Kan is a wise man. That he chose his place and that makes him strong. But I do not understand it.”
“What don’t you understand?”
“That a man can forget his land. His blood. His language.”
Aguilar was silent for a moment. Then he spoke slowly, choosing his words.
“He did not forget it. He left it. It is not the same.”
“And you?” Ix Balam asked. “Will you leave it too?”
Aguilar looked at the fire. He thought of Spain. Of the olive groves, of the bell tower of his village, of his mother’s face, which he no longer remembered clearly. He thought of the ship, of the storm, of the bodies of his companions floating in the water. He thought of Guerrero, of Zazil, of the three children. He thought of that courtyard, of that night, of that young Maya looking at him with serious eyes.
“I don’t know,” he said. “I no longer know anything.”
Ix Balam did not answer. He kept looking at the fire for a while longer. Then he stood up.
“Tomorrow I will continue with you,” he said. “My uncle wants me to go as ambassador to Cortés. But I have my own reasons.”
“What are they?”
“I already saw him in the tent, when my uncle went to speak with him. I did not like what I saw. He smiles like one who offers, but he looks like one who measures. I want to see him again, up close, when my uncle is not there. I want to know what he promises and what he keeps. I want to know if my uncle is right to trust him… or if he is leading us to sacrifice.”
Aguilar looked at him for a long time.
“And if he is not right?”
Ix Balam held his gaze.
“Then I will know. And I will return to tell him.”
He turned and walked away toward the house, without waiting for an answer. Aguilar remained by the fire, alone. He looked at the embers, which were slowly going out.
He did not know how much time passed. The night advanced slowly, and the fire consumed itself without him doing anything to revive it. At some point, the door of the house opened and Tabscoob came out. The cacique approached without making noise and sat down beside him, on the ground, like any man. For a while, neither of them spoke.
“Ix Balam has told me that he wants to continue with you,” Tabscoob said at last.
“Yes.”
“He is young. He has more heart than head. But he is not foolish. He knows how to listen. And he knows how to keep silent. That is more than many can say.”
Aguilar nodded.
“Will you let him go?”
Tabscoob looked at the fire for a moment.
“I will let him. But not because I want to. I let him because if I do not, he will go anyway. And I prefer that he go with my blessing than without it.”
He turned to Aguilar.
“Take care of him. Not because he is my blood. But because he is the only person in this city who dares to tell me no. And that, in a cacique, cannot be bought with jade or feathers.”
Aguilar looked at him. For the first time, he saw something different in Tabscoob: not the serene king, but the tired man. The man who had lost a war, who had seen his city occupied, who had had to give up part of his warriors to the invaders. And who, even so, was still standing.
“I will take care of him,” said Aguilar.
Tabscoob nodded. He stood up, slowly, as if it cost him. Then he went into the house without saying anything more.
Aguilar remained by the fire. The night was quiet. At some point, without realizing it, he fell asleep on the blanket.
When he opened his eyes, the sky was beginning to lighten in the east and a gray, thin light rested on the plaza of Potonchán.
mvf
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