The Mangrove - Nahuatl IX

XVIII

The Men of the River

The city was still sleeping when Aguilar left Tabscoob's stone house and walked to the river. He rose in silence, without waking anyone.

Following the bank, beside a small extinguished campfire, he found three Spanish soldiers. They were lying on the ground, wrapped in blankets, with their weapons leaning against a trunk. They were sleeping. Aguilar approached slowly. One of them opened his eyes suddenly and jumped up, his hand going to his knife.

—Father Aguilar! —he exclaimed, recognizing him—. Praise be to God! We feared you would not return.

The other two woke as well. One sat up on the blanket, rubbing his eyes with a tired smile. The other, younger, got up with distrust, looking Aguilar up and down.

—The captain left us with provisions for five days —said the first—. If you did not come, we were to set out alone and catch up with the expedition. But three men alone in this land...

He did not finish the sentence. There was no need.

—We are glad to see you, father —said the second—. Truly.

—Father —said the first—. My name is Ordaz. And this is Alonso.

The third, the youngest, introduced himself with a dry nod of his head.

—Hernán.

Aguilar memorized the names.

—Aguilar. Jerónimo Aguilar.

Alonso bowed his head.

—We know, father. The captain told us about you. He said you were the man who spoke with the Indians.

Aguilar did not respond. He observed the three men. Ordaz had hands stained with mud and a recent burn on the back of his hand. Alonso wore an empty canteen hanging from his belt and spoke little. Hernán, the youngest, had lively eyes and an easy smile, but his hands trembled slightly when he held the knife. All three smelled of dried fish and old smoke. Beside them, on the blanket, were their iron breastplates, still damp with sweat, and their steel helmets, dented from use.

—Have you eaten? —asked Aguilar.

—Yes, father —answered Ordaz—. Fish. Fish every day. I am beginning to dream of Castilian bread.

Alonso let out a short, dry laugh.

—I dream of wine —he said—. And of never smelling the sea again for the rest of my life.

Hernán said nothing. He merely looked at the river, as if expecting to see something in the water.

—How many days have you been here? —asked Aguilar.

—Four —said Alonso—. This is the fourth. Tomorrow, if you had not returned, we would have set out.

Ordaz nodded, and for a moment his smile vanished.

—Four days that have felt like four months to me —he murmured.

—And what have you done in the meantime? —asked Aguilar.

—Wait —said Alonso—. And kill mosquitoes. And count the days.

Ordaz shrugged.

—I have learned a few words in Maya —he said—. The ones the fishermen who passed by here taught me. Water, fish, thank you. Little more.

—More than I knew at your age —said Aguilar.

Ordaz smiled, flattered. Hernán remained silent, looking at the river.

—Wait for me here —said Aguilar—. I am going to Potonchán to take leave of the cacique. I will return before the sun is high, and we will set out then.

Ordaz bowed his head.

—We will be here waiting for you, father.

Alonso said nothing, but sat down again on the blanket and prepared to wait. Hernán stepped forward.

—Father —he said, with a firmer voice than he expected—. Is it true that you spent eight years among the Indians?

Aguilar looked at him.

—Yes.

—And were you not afraid?

—Very much. At first. Then I learned that fear serves no purpose. It only tires you.

Hernán nodded, as if storing those words away. Aguilar set off back to Potonchán, following the riverbank to the first houses.

The city was beginning to wake: children ran between the houses, and the smoke from the kitchens rose straight in the still air. Aguilar crossed the plaza and reached Tabscoob's stone house.

The cacique was waiting at the door, with Ix Balam at his side. Seeing him, Tabscoob did not smile. He looked at him with cold, almost severe attention, as if weighing something he did not say.

—I thought you had already left —he said—. This morning, when dawn came and I did not see you, I thought you had departed without saying goodbye.

Aguilar held his gaze. He understood what lay behind those words.

—I would not have done such a thing —Aguilar replied—. Neither leave without saying goodbye, nor leave without your nephew.

Tabscoob did not look away.

—And if you had been in a hurry? If the captain had been waiting for you downriver, with the days numbered?

—Even then I would have returned —said Aguilar—. I would not fail you. Not after what you have done for me.

The cacique fell silent. He knew what Aguilar was referring to. And he said nothing more.

—Aguilar. I know you depart for the north, to rejoin your captain.

—That is so —replied Aguilar—. I have come to say goodbye.

Tabscoob made a slow gesture with his head. Then he looked at his nephew. He said nothing to him. He only looked at him, for a long moment, like one who says goodbye without words. Ix Balam held his uncle's gaze and did not lower his eyes.

—Ix Balam will go with you —said Tabscoob, turning again to Aguilar—. He knows the land and the men. He will be useful to you.

Aguilar looked at the young Maya. He remembered the conversation of the night before, by the fire. He also remembered the jade necklace that Zazil had given him before he left, and which he now wore around his neck, hidden beneath his shirt.

—Agreed —he said—. We will leave together.

Tabscoob raised a hand in farewell.

—Take care of him —he said—. He will also take care of you when you need him.

It was not a sad farewell. It was the farewell of a man who knows that his blood keeps walking.

Aguilar said goodbye to Tabscoob with a bow of his head. Then, together with Ix Balam, he set off back to the river, where Ordaz, Alonso, and Hernán were waiting.

When they arrived, Alonso saw the Maya and looked at him with distrust. But he said nothing. He already knew who he was. Hernán, however, stepped forward, curious, looking at Ix Balam as if he were an apparition. Ix Balam held his gaze without blinking. Hernán lowered his eyes.

—Very well —said Aguilar—. Gather what you have. We set out now.

The three soldiers did not need to be told twice. Ordaz rolled up the blankets and tied them to his pack; Alonso checked the cords of his arquebus, hung the empty canteen from his belt, adjusted his helmet, and took a last look at the small camp. Hernán gathered the weapons and breastplates and slung them over his shoulder. They left nothing behind but the ashes of the campfire. In a few minutes they were ready.

Aguilar turned to Ix Balam.

—Let us follow the current —he said—, until we find Cortés's expedition. You know this land better than we do. How long do you think it will take us?

Ix Balam looked at the river, then at the sky, as if calculating.

—If the river does not rise and we do not stop —he replied—, three days. Four if the rain catches us.

—Then there is no time to lose —said Aguilar—. Let's go.

And the five of them set off, following the bank. They walked all day, pushing aside branches and thorns, with weapons ready and eyes watchful of the forest. The breastplates weighed on their shoulders, and the helmets, under the sun, burned their foreheads. More than once Ordaz took his off to wipe away sweat, and more than once Alonso put it back on, grumbling between his teeth. Hernán walked in silence, his gaze fixed on the ground, as if counting his steps.

At dusk, when the sun was beginning to set behind the trees, they reached a bend in the river where the current widened. There, stranded in the mud, was an old canoe, its hull cracked and its moorings rotten. Ordaz looked at it for a moment.

—We could repair it —he said—. With resin and bark. And continue by water. It is faster than clearing a path with a machete.

Alonso spat on the ground.

—And if it capsizes? I prefer to walk.

—But walking will take us days —insisted Ordaz—. And we have to reach the captain before he gets to Xicallanco.

Aguilar looked at the canoe. Then he looked at Ix Balam.

—What do you think?

The young Maya approached the canoe. He inspected it for a moment, running his hand over the hull. Then he turned to them.

—It can be repaired —he said—. There are trees nearby. I can do it. But we have to stop.

—How long?

—One night. If you help me.

Alonso snorted.

—One more night. As if we had not already lost four days.

—One night —said Aguilar—. And tomorrow we continue by water. It is the most sensible thing.

Alonso said nothing more. He sat on the ground, his back against a tree, and prepared to eat a piece of dried fish. He loosened the straps of his breastplate and set his helmet aside. Ordaz approached Ix Balam and asked him, with gestures and scattered words, which trees to look for. The Maya answered slowly, in his language; and Ordaz nodded as if he had understood half of it. Probably he had. Hernán remained standing by the bank, looking at the river.

Aguilar stayed by the bank, looking at the river. The water flowed north, toward the sea, toward Xicallanco. Toward Cortés. Toward everything that awaited him.

Ix Balam approached him, a piece of resin in his hands.

—Do you think we will arrive in time? —he asked.

Ix Balam nodded. Then he turned back to the canoe and continued working. Aguilar watched him for a moment. Then he sat on the ground, beside Alonso, and closed his eyes.

The next morning, before the sun was high, the canoe was ready. They pushed it together into the water and climbed aboard. The soldiers removed their breastplates to row better, and left them stacked in the bow, along with the arquebuses and helmets.

The river kept running north. The canoe, now repaired, slid over the water with a slow but steady rhythm. Ix Balam sat in the bow, marking the course with his gaze; Ordaz and Alonso rowed when the channel allowed; Hernán, in the stern, watched the banks. Aguilar, in the center, watched the water.

By mid-morning, they reached a bend where the river widened. On the bank was a clearing where other men had camped before them. Remains of a campfire, fish bones, and a torn blanket were left behind.

—The men of the expedition —said Ordaz, crouching to look at the tracks—. They are traveling by land. These tracks are two days old, perhaps three.

—They go by land and we by river —said Aguilar—. We will soon close the distance.

—If the river does not betray us —murmured Alonso, without letting go of the canoe against the bank.

Aguilar watched him as they pushed the canoe back into the water. There was something in Alonso that did not fit the image of the soldier who merely follows orders. It was not just the fatigue. It was the way he dragged his feet when stepping in the mud, as if each step cost him more than the last.

—You were in Naples —said Aguilar, without looking at him—. Under the Great Captain.

Alonso glanced at him, surprised.

—How do you know?

—It shows in the way you walk. Men who have been to war do not walk like the others.

Alonso let out a dry laugh.

—War. Yes. There I learned what that was. And I also learned that glory does not exist. There are only men who die and men who survive. And I have survived too many times.

Ordaz, now in the bow, turned around.

—But now we are here. In a new land. With cities of gold, they say.

—That is what they say —replied Alonso—. I have been hearing the same thing for twenty years. Gold in Naples, gold in Flanders, gold in the Indies. And there is always someone who keeps it. It is never me.

—And what are you looking for, then? —asked Aguilar.

Alonso was silent for a moment. He looked at the jungle sliding past the bank, as if the answer were among the trees.

—I no longer know. I suppose I march and fight. It is the only thing I know how to do.

—My father was also a soldier —said Ordaz, in a lower voice—. He returned from Flanders without a hand and without any desire to talk. He never told us anything. But he would look at the fire as if he saw things in it.

Alonso looked at him, and for an instant something moved in his face. It was not tenderness, but it resembled it.

—Your father knew what war was —he said—. And he knew it cannot be told. That is why he was silent.

—And why are you not silent? —asked Ordaz, without malice.

Alonso did not answer. He adjusted his belt and kept rowing.

Ix Balam, who until then had kept silent, spoke for the first time since they had left Potonchán.

—Men who have seen others die do not speak of it —he said, in a calm voice—. But they do not forget it either.

Alonso glanced at him, surprised. He said nothing, but for an instant his hands stopped on the oar.

Aguilar, who had listened in silence, spoke at last.

—Perhaps it is not gold that you seek. Perhaps that other thing is closer than you think.

Alonso looked at him, and for an instant something shone in his eyes. It was not hope. It was curiosity.

—And what is that other thing, friar?

—That you will have to discover for yourself —Aguilar smiled—. But I assure you that the jungle hides not only dangers. It also keeps answers.

Alonso said nothing more. He sank the oar into the water again. But Aguilar noticed that he rowed with more strength, and that his gaze was a little less lost. It was not much. But it was something.

Ordaz, who had listened to everything in silence, approached Aguilar, leaning over the edge of the canoe.

—Do you think he will find what he is looking for?

—I do not know —replied Aguilar—. But as long as he rows, he will have a chance. And that, in this land, is already a great deal.

At nightfall, they reached a bend where the river opened into a small cove. They beached the canoe on the shore and set up camp beside the water. They lit a fire, ate some dried meat, and lay down to sleep under the trees. The soldiers hung their breastplates from a branch to air them out, and left their helmets upside down beside the weapons. Ix Balam stayed awake a while longer, watching the night. Ordaz, Alonso, and Hernán took turns with him.

The next day, they resumed navigation at dawn. They rowed for hours, following the course of the river.

Ix Balam was in the bow, watching the current, when he suddenly raised a hand. Everyone stopped rowing.

—There —he said, and pointed toward the bank.

Aguilar looked. Among the branches, half hidden by the vegetation, was a red cloth tied to a branch. And a little further on, on the bank, beside the mangroves, two figures that stood up suddenly.

—Alonso!... Is that you, Alonso? It's us!

Alonso squinted. Then he stood up, almost capsizing the canoe.

—Pedro? Rodrigo? Is that you?

—Alonso! —shouted one of the figures—. It's us!

Aguilar ordered Ordaz to bring the canoe to the shore. Barely had they touched the mud when Alonso jumped out before anyone else and ran, splashing in the water, not caring about his clothes or the mud.

The two men on the bank reached him first and embraced him with a force that almost knocked him down. They smelled of smoke, dried fish, and old sweat. They wore worn iron breastplates and steel helmets with dents from war.

—We were waiting for you —said one of them, holding him at arm's length to look him up and down—. Every day, until today. We did not doubt that you would appear.

—And here we are —replied Alonso, and for the first time in a long time he felt the tension in his shoulders give way—. And you? How have you survived?

The other stepped forward, with a crooked smile that did not erase his fatigue.

—Fishing. Hunting lizards. And waiting. The captain left us two arquebuses, powder, a barrel of biscuit, and orders not to move from here until you appeared. Not a step downriver, not a step upriver. "After four days, you return," he said.

—But we did not leave —added the first, and spat on the ground—. We stayed. Because I knew you were going to come back. I do not know why, but I knew it.

Aguilar looked at the two of them. They were thin, sunburned, with ragged clothes and hands full of scars from thorns and insect bites. But they were alive. And they were there.

—Aguilar —he said, extending his hand—. Jerónimo Aguilar.

The younger one shook it with a brief but sincere smile.

—Pedro de Molina —he replied—. And this is Rodrigo de Avellaneda.

Rodrigo bowed his head, without smiling. He shook Aguilar's hand with a dry firmness, as if the gesture cost him more than he wanted to admit.

—Father —he said, and in his voice there was no devotion, but a contained curiosity—. The captain told us about you.

—And what did he say? —asked Aguilar.

—That you were the man who spoke with the Indians —replied Rodrigo—. And that if you returned, it was because God wanted you to return.

Aguilar did not respond. He looked at the two men. Pedro, the young one, had hands stained with mud and a recent burn on the back of his hand. He moved with the energy of one who has not slept well in days, but does not complain. Rodrigo, the veteran, had an old scar on his forehead and an empty canteen hanging from his belt. He had the eyes of one who has seen too many things and no longer expects much from those to come. His breastplate was patched with strips of raw leather, and his helmet, without a visor, had a rim so worn it looked like tin.

—And the provisions? —asked Aguilar.

—There is still maize, beans, and some dried meat —said Pedro—. We rationed. We did not know how long...

—Well done —said Aguilar, and placed a hand on each of their shoulders—. Very well done.

Rodrigo pointed at the river with a jerk of his chin.

—The river, further ahead, breaks into rapids.

—Can we continue by land? —asked Aguilar.

—Yes —said Rodrigo—. The Chontals who go with Cortés march ahead. We saw them pass. Warriors of Potonchán, with their bows and spears. They are clearing the way. If we follow their tracks, we will catch them sooner than you think.

Aguilar looked at Ix Balam. The Maya made a slow gesture with his head.

—It is true —he said—. My people go ahead. They know the route.

—Then there is no time to lose —said Aguilar—. Gather what you have. We continue on foot.

The two men were already loading their scant belongings. Ordaz, Alonso, and Hernán took the blankets, the dried meat, and the arquebuses from the canoe. They also gathered the breastplates and helmets, which they put back on over their doublets. Ix Balam looked at the river one last time, as if saying goodbye to it. They left the canoe stranded on the bank, beside the rapids, because the channel was becoming too shallow and rocky to navigate. They would not need it again.

And the seven of them set off, heading into the jungle.

The jungle was not a place: it was an animal that breathed through millions of leaves and devoured everything that entered it. The heat soon made itself felt. Their clothes stuck to their bodies and sweat ran down their foreheads. The breastplates, soaked, weighed on them like lead. The mosquitoes, invisible but relentless, buzzed around their ears, and every time they stopped to drink a sip of water, a cloud of them swarmed over their skin.

Pedro stopped every few steps to look around.

—Are there jaguars here? —he asked, in a tone that tried to sound carefree but betrayed nervousness.

—Yes —said Ix Balam, who was already beginning to understand some Spanish—. But do not worry. Jaguars usually avoid men. They prefer easier prey.

—And snakes?

—Those do not avoid you —he replied, imitating their sinuous movement with one arm—. But if you walk carefully and look at the ground, you can see them before they see you.

Pedro swallowed and from then on walked with his gaze fixed on the ground, jumping over every root and every stone as if it could hide a viper.

Ordaz, who was walking beside him, let out a short laugh.

—Easy, boy. If a snake bites you, at least you will not be bored.

—It is not funny —murmured Pedro.

—It is —said Alonso, from behind—. Everything is funny when you have been in these lands so long.

Hernán walked in silence, his gaze fixed ahead. Rodrigo, beside him, said nothing, but his eyes never stopped moving, scanning the vegetation. Ix Balam went ahead, clearing the way with a wooden and stone machete, reading the jungle as others read a map.


XIX

The Incident at the River

The path led them to a river with turbid waters and a rapid current. It was not wide—perhaps twenty paces from bank to bank—but the water came down with force, dragging branches and trunks that spun in whirlpools. There was no bridge. No visible ford. It was midday.

Aguilar stopped on the bank and examined the water. The current was strong, but not impossible. The problem was not the river itself, but what might be in it. Seeing the intention in Aguilar's eyes, Pedro, pale, looked at the water with distrust.

—Can we not find another crossing?

—We can. But we will lose hours. And the expedition does not wait.

Rodrigo looked at him with skepticism.

—And if there are alligators?

—There are —replied Aguilar calmly—. But they prefer quieter waters. Here the current is too fast for them. The danger is the stones and the trunks coming down.

Ix Balam went into the jungle and after a while returned with a rope made of lianas from the trees, with which they could cross the river.

—I will go first —said Aguilar, tying the rope around his waist—. Rodrigo, you behind. Then Pedro, Ordaz, Alonso, and Hernán. Ix Balam will be last. Do not separate. If one falls, the others hold him.

He passed the end to Rodrigo, who did the same, and then to Pedro, to Ordaz, to Alonso, and to Hernán. They were joined like a chain of links.

Before entering the water, the soldiers removed their breastplates and helmets. The iron weighed too much, and with the current pulling as it did, a soaked breastplate could drag a man to the bottom as soon as he lost his footing. They tied them to their backs, over their shoulders, with the straps tight. Even so, the weight bent their waists, and Ordaz had to help Alonso adjust the buckles, because his fingers, wet with sweat, slipped on the metal.

He entered the water. The cold bit into his legs and the current pulled at him with force. He took a step, then another, placing his feet carefully on the bed of slippery stones. The water reached his waist. For Pedro, shorter, it would cover his chest.

—Let's go —he said, without turning around.

Rodrigo followed. The veteran advanced with his jaw clenched, muscles tense, holding the rope with one hand and the sword with the other. Pedro, trembling, was next. His feet slipped on the first stone and he stumbled, making the rope go taut.

—Careful! —shouted Rodrigo.

Pedro recovered, panting, and went on. The water reached his chest. The current struck his torso and he struggled to keep his balance, arms outstretched like a tightrope walker.

Ordaz, Alonso, and Hernán entered after, more confident, but no less tense. Alonso advanced with the calm of one who has crossed worse rivers. Ordaz imitated his steps. Hernán, the youngest, clenched his teeth and did not look down. Ix Balam closed the march, his feet firm on the stones, as if the river could not overcome him.

They reached the middle of the river when it happened.

The rope went taut. The current pulled Pedro down, dragging him among the stones. The boy did not come to the surface. Rodrigo, his feet planted in the riverbed, pulled the rope with all his strength, but the water pushed him, and his feet slipped on the stones.

Then Aguilar made a quick decision. Instead of continuing to pull the rope, he untied the knot at his waist and threw himself downstream, letting the current carry him until he reached Pedro. Under the turbid water, he saw the silhouette of the boy, trapped between two rocks, his arm caught on a submerged branch. Pedro's breastplate, hanging from his back, had also caught on the branch, and the weight of the iron kept him sunk, like an anchor.

He dived. The water filled his ears with a dull roar. He pulled Pedro's arm, but the branch held him. With his other hand, he clawed at the wood until it broke. The branch gave way with a crack. Pedro surfaced, coughing and spitting water, his eyes wide.

He grabbed him by the arm and swam toward the bank, dragging him. The soaked breastplate weighed like lead, and Aguilar had to make a superhuman effort to keep Pedro's head above water. The current pushed them several steps further down before Aguilar managed to plant his feet on the bottom and pull Pedro out of the water. The boy collapsed in the mud, vomiting water, trembling with cold even though the sun was directly overhead. The breastplate fell beside him with a dull thud, and the iron, sinking into the mud, sounded like a stone dropped into a well.

Aguilar let himself fall beside him, panting. He looked upstream. The current had dragged Pedro and him a considerable distance. He could barely make out the figures of Rodrigo, Ordaz, Alonso, Hernán, and Ix Balam on the opposite bank. He saw them come out of the water, one after another, and signal to each other, searching for them.

—It's all right —said Aguilar, kneeling beside Pedro—. It's all right. You're out.

Pedro looked up, his eyes full of tears from the water and fear.

—I almost drowned —he said, his voice broken.

—But you did not. That is what matters.

They waited. The other five had to walk along the bank, pushing through the undergrowth, until they finally found them. Rodrigo arrived first, hands on his knees, chest rising and falling. He looked at Aguilar with an expression that mixed surprise and respect.

—I did not know friars could swim —he said.

—Friars who have been shipwrecked learn to swim or drown —replied Aguilar, wiping his face with his sleeve.

Rodrigo let out a short laugh, almost without joy, but genuine.

—Well done, friar. If you had not let go... the boy would have gone to the bottom. And with the breastplate on, not even God could pull him out.

Aguilar stood and stretched his arms.

—Let's go —he said—. We cannot stay here. The wet clothes will chill us when night falls. We have to reach a dry place before dusk.

After walking for an hour, with wet feet and clothes clinging to their bodies, they found a clearing where the sun warmed the earth and the sea breeze slipped between the trees. There they stopped, lit a small fire, and spread their clothes to dry. The breastplates, soaked, lay spread on some stones, and the helmets, upside down, shone in the sun like fogged mirrors.

Pedro, recovered from the scare, sat by the fire and watched Aguilar with a mixture of curiosity and gratitude.

—Father —he said—. Is it true that you spent eight years among the Indians?

—Yes —replied Aguilar.

—And were you not afraid? I mean... at first, when you were shipwrecked. When they captured you. Were you not afraid they would kill you?

Aguilar was silent for a moment. The question opened an old wound.

—Yes —he said at last—. I was afraid. Very much. At first, every night was a hell. I did not know if I would wake the next day. But over time, fear became something else. Respect, perhaps. Acceptance. I learned that life, even when hard, goes on. And that one can adapt to almost anything.

—Even to living among Indians?

—Even to that —replied Aguilar, and his smile was sad but sincere—. Even to learning to love them.

Rodrigo, who had been listening in silence, looked up.

—And now? —he asked—. Do you still love them?

Aguilar looked him directly in the eyes.

—Some I love. Others I respect. Others, I simply understand. But I do not hate them. Hatred is too heavy a burden to carry in these lands.

Rodrigo fell silent. Then, in a low voice, almost to himself, he murmured:

—I wish I could say the same.

Ordaz, Alonso, and Hernán, who had been listening without intervening, exchanged a glance. They said nothing, but something in their faces had softened.

Ix Balam, sitting a little apart, looked at the fire. He did not understand all the words, but he understood the tone. And the tone was that of a man who has ceased to be a foreigner everywhere.

The fire crackled. The clothes were beginning to dry. And in the sky, the first stars were beginning to appear.

That night, while they kept watch in turns, Aguilar slept deeply. The tension of the river, the effort of the march, the fatigue accumulated in the journeys south and north, all melted into a dream without dreams, from which he awoke at dawn feeling strangely light.


XX

The Mangrove

The path led into a mangrove, where the roots of the trees rose like twisted fingers over the brackish water. They had to walk with water up to their knees, dodging crabs that scurried between their feet and snakes that slid along the low branches. The smell of rot was intense, and the mosquitoes, fiercer than ever, covered their arms and necks with bites. The brackish water entered their boots, and the breastplates, soaked again, weighed on them as if they carried sacks of sand on their backs. Every step was an effort. The mud sucked at their feet, and the iron sank their shoulders. Rodrigo cursed the breastplate a hundred times, and Ordaz unbuckled his to breathe, but Alonso tightened his more, as if the weight kept him standing.

—This is a hell! —shouted Rodrigo, striking the water with his sword—. When does this end?

—When we leave the mangrove —replied Aguilar calmly—. But do not shout. Noise attracts animals.

Rodrigo looked at him with fury, but obeyed. The incident at the river had done something to him. It was not full trust, but it was recognition: the friar knew what he was doing.

At one point, they lost the trail. The brackish water had erased all trace, and for almost an hour they walked without direction, deeper and deeper into the swamp. Pedro began to show signs of panic.

—We are lost —he said, his voice broken—. We are lost.

—We are not lost —replied Aguilar—. We have only lost the trail. They are different things.

He stopped and closed his eyes. He remembered Balam's words: *when you are lost, look for the sun. The sun always rises in the east and sets in the west. The sea is to the north. Do not lose sight of it.*

He opened his eyes, located the position of the sun, and adjusted the course.

—This way —he said, pointing in a direction—. The sea is to the north. If we walk toward it, we will leave the mangrove.

Rodrigo looked at him with distrust.

—Are you sure?

—As sure as one can be in a jungle. But it is better than staying here.

Ix Balam, who had been observing the water and the roots, stepped forward.

—There —he said, pointing to a spot among the mangroves—. The water runs toward the sea. If we follow the current, we will get out.

Aguilar looked at him, surprised.

—Are you sure?

—Yes. The crabs go north. The water too.

Aguilar nodded. He slightly changed the course and followed the Maya.

They walked for another hour, dodging roots and puddles, until the terrain began to rise. The vegetation thinned and the ground became firmer, with stones covered in moss and ferns that crunched under their feet. The air changed. It no longer smelled of rot and stagnant water, but of salt, of damp wood, of something Aguilar had not felt in days.

He stopped at the top of a small hill and breathed deeply. The wind came from the north, fresh and salty. Among the trees, beyond the line of the jungle, a different clarity could be sensed, as if the world were about to open suddenly.

—We are close —said Aguilar, in a low voice.

Rodrigo looked at him.

—The sea?

—Yes. You can smell it. And the wind comes from there.

Pedro approached, sniffing the air like a dog.

—It is true —he said—. It smells of the sea. My father was a fisherman in Cádiz. I know that smell.

Rodrigo said nothing, but for the first time in days, his face relaxed. It was not joy, but it was something like it. It was the certainty that the road was about to end.

Ix Balam crouched and touched the earth. Then he looked north, toward where the wind brought the smell of salt.

—Tomorrow —he said—. If we follow the wind, tomorrow we arrive.

Ordaz and Alonso, exhausted, let themselves fall onto the stones. They said nothing, but they looked at each other, and in their eyes there was a spark they had not had in days. They loosened the straps of their breastplates and removed their helmets, which rolled on the ground with a dull thud. The iron, as it fell, sounded like an echo of something that no longer belonged to them. Hernán sat apart, his gaze lost on the horizon.

—We camp here —said Aguilar—. There is no sense in continuing at night. Tomorrow, at dawn, we go down.

No one argued. They set up camp on top of the hill, beside some rocks that protected them from the wind. They lit a small fire, ate what little dried meat they had left, and lay down to sleep under the trees.

That night, the fire crackled and the wind kept bringing the smell of salt. Pedro, exhausted, fell asleep almost instantly. Rodrigo, however, sat beside Aguilar.

—Thank you —he said, in a low voice—. For the mangrove. If it had not been for you, we would still be going in circles.

Aguilar nodded.

—Anyone who knows the jungle would have done the same.

—But not everyone knows it. You do. And that is what matters.

Rodrigo fell silent for a moment. Then he pointed north, toward where the wind brought the smell of salt.

—Tomorrow, at dawn, we continue. How much do you think we have left?

Aguilar looked at the dark horizon.

—If the terrain does not worsen, perhaps half a day. Maybe less. But it depends on what we find.

Rodrigo nodded and stood up.

—Rest, friar. I will keep watch.

Aguilar lay back on the hard earth. He closed his eyes. And he slept without disturbance.

The next morning, the sun was already high when Aguilar awoke. The camp was still silent. Ix Balam was standing by the rocks, looking north. Rodrigo slept sitting up, his back against a trunk and his sword in his lap. Ordaz and Hernán snored near the ashes of the fire.

Pedro was lying face down, one arm extended and his face turned to one side. He was not moving.

Aguilar approached. He called his name. Pedro did not respond. He touched his shoulder, and the body was cold. He turned him over carefully. His eyes were open, without brightness, and a trace of dried vomit was at the corner of his lips. On his neck, just below the jaw, was a purple mark, with two small points in the center.

Aguilar looked at the ground. Beside Pedro's side, crushed by the weight of his own body during the night, was an insect. It was large, the size of a beetle, with a black back and red stripes. It was crushed, but the legs and the stinger could still be distinguished.

—Poison —said Ix Balam, who had approached without making a sound—. It is a spider. Or a scorpion. I do not know. But it is poisonous.

Aguilar said nothing. He closed Pedro's eyes with his fingers. Then he stood up.

Rodrigo woke at that moment. Seeing the scene, he went still. He did not shout. He did not run. He only looked at Pedro's body, and then at Aguilar.

—When? —he asked.

—Last night —replied Aguilar—. We did not hear him.

Rodrigo approached. He looked at the crushed insect, the two points on the neck, Pedro's face. He said nothing. He stood there, arms hanging, as if he did not know what to do with his hands.

Ordaz and Hernán woke as well. Hernán, seeing the body, put his hand to his mouth and stepped away. Ordaz stayed where he was, looking at the ground.

No one spoke for a while. Then Aguilar said:

—We bury him here. We cannot carry him.

They dug the grave among the rocks, with their hands and with their swords. The earth was hard, and the iron of the swords struck against the stones. When the hole was ready, they slid him inside with his belongings, and covered him with earth and stones.

Aguilar said a brief prayer.

—Our Father, who art in heaven... forgive him his debts, as he forgave those who owed him. And take him to your side. Amen.

Rodrigo crossed himself. Ordaz and Hernán did the same. Ix Balam bowed his head.

Then Rodrigo spoke. His voice was hoarse, but firm.

—We saved him from the river —he said—. And the river did not want him. But the earth did.

Aguilar shook his head.

—It was not the river or the earth. It was his hour. And there was no way to avoid it.

Rodrigo looked at the boy's body, with the two points on his neck.

—My father used to say that when death looks for you, there is no water that can keep you from it. Nor jungle. Nor prayer. You can only look it in the eyes when it arrives.

—And he looked at it —said Ix Balam, in a low voice—. Sleeping. Without fear. That is more than many can say.

Ordaz, who had been silent, stepped forward.

—He was a good boy —he said—. He asked a lot of questions. But he was a good boy.

Hernán said nothing. His eyes were wet, but he did not cry.

Then they gathered the camp and resumed the march. No one spoke for the first hour.

 

XXI

The Jaguar and the Hunters

The sky dawned covered with gray clouds that foretold rain. The path had become dustier, and the trees, taller, formed a vault that barely let the light through. They walked in silence, their ears attentive to the murmur of the jungle and their eyes scanning the ground for tracks. Pedro's absence weighed more than any word.

It was Rodrigo, the most veteran, who saw it first.

—Look! —he whispered, pointing at the ground.

In the mud, beside the path, there were footprints. Several. Most blurred by rain or by the passage of other animals, but one of them was better impressed: the paw of a jaguar, fresh, with edges still sharp. The claws had left four deep marks in the earth, and the heel sank with the weight of a large animal.

Aguilar crouched and examined the print. It was damp, but not puddled.

—He passed less than an hour ago —he said, in a low voice—. Perhaps half an hour.

Rodrigo drew his sword and stood guard, his eyes scanning the vegetation. He adjusted his breastplate with his free hand, and the iron creaked.

—Is he near?

—I do not know —replied Aguilar—. But jaguars usually avoid men. If he sees us, he will probably move away.

—And if he does not move away? —asked Hernán, his voice trembling.

Aguilar did not respond. Ix Balam crouched beside the print. He touched it with his fingers, measured its size with his hand.

—It is big —he said—. Male. And he is not hungry. If he were hungry, he would not have left the print so clean.

Aguilar looked at him.

—How do you know?

—Because hungry jaguars walk fast. This one walked slowly. He drank. He rested. He is not looking for us.

—We continue —said Aguilar—. But without making noise. And without running.

They walked a few steps. Barely ten. And then Aguilar felt the chill. An instant before hearing it, he knew something was wrong. Perhaps it was the smell, an acrid stench of feline urine. Or the sudden silence of the birds. Or perhaps it was simply the survival instinct he had developed during eight years in the jungle.

He stopped. He raised his hand.

—Quiet —he whispered.

The soldiers stopped. In the silence, Aguilar heard a deep, hoarse breathing, barely a few steps away. He turned slowly. His eyes swept the undergrowth.

And then he saw it.

The jaguar was crouched on a low branch, about ten steps from them. Its yellow coat blended with the patches of sun and shadow, and its eyes, a deep green, shone with the light filtering through the leaves. It was a magnificent and terrible animal.

Aguilar felt time stop. The jaguar looked at him fixedly, without blinking. It did not roar. It did not growl. It only watched.

—Do not move —whispered Aguilar—. Do not take your eyes off him. And do not run.

Hernán was paralyzed. Rodrigo had adopted a combat stance, sword raised. Ordaz, further back, held his breath. Ix Balam did not move. He stood still, his eyes fixed on the animal, as if he knew it.

The jaguar turned its head slightly. Then, with a slowness that seemed deliberate, it rose on the branch, stretched its back, and jumped to the ground. It walked a few steps, its eyes fixed on them. And then, without haste, it turned and went into the jungle, disappearing among the undergrowth like a shadow that fades.

The silence lasted several seconds. Then Hernán let out a sigh he seemed to have been holding from the start.

—He's gone —he said, his voice broken—. He's gone.

Aguilar felt his legs trembling. He had forgotten what it was to be so close to a predator. Eight years in these lands had not made him immune to fear. They had only taught him to control it.

—Let's go —he said, his voice firmer than he felt—. Let's not stop.

They walked for another hour, in silence. The encounter with the jaguar had left them tense, nerves on edge. But also, in some way, it had united them.

That was when they heard the shouts.

They were not war cries, but hunting cries. Deep, rhythmic voices, coming from among the trees, accompanied by the sound of drums and conch shells. Aguilar raised his hand and everyone stopped.

—Mayas —said Ix Balam—. They are hunting.

—Hunting what? —asked Hernán, his voice trembling.

Ix Balam did not respond. But his gaze fell on the ground, where the jaguar's tracks crossed with human footprints. Then Aguilar understood.

—The jaguar —he said—. They are hunting the jaguar.

Rodrigo gripped the hilt of his sword.

—Do we go in or pass by?

Aguilar hesitated an instant. But then a roar tore the air, followed by shouts and the clash of spears against stone. The jaguar had been cornered. And the Maya hunters were attacking it.

—Let's go —said Aguilar—. If they are in danger, we can help.

They ran toward the sound. The jungle opened into a clearing, and there, in the middle of a circle of men painted with black and red stripes, the jaguar fought for its life. It was the same one. Ix Balam knew it instantly: the same coat, the same gaze, the same terrible calm. The animal had its back bristling, its fangs bared, and its eyes shone with a ferocity that froze the blood. At its feet, two hunters lay on the ground, their arms torn and blood soaking the earth. One of them was crawling backward, leaving a dark trail, his hand pressed against his open belly. The other was not moving.

The other hunters harassed it with spears and bows, but the animal was fast, and each charge of its own made the men retreat. A young Maya approached too close with a spear, and the jaguar turned with impossible speed. It sank its claws into his shoulder and knocked him down with a swipe. The boy screamed, and his scream cut off abruptly when the jaguar sank its fangs into his neck. Then it released him, and the body fell to the ground like a sack.

The old hunter shouted an order in Maya. The archers shot, but the arrows bounced off the animal's back or stuck in the earth. The jaguar roared, a deep roar that made the leaves tremble, and launched itself at a second hunter, knocking him down with the weight of its body. It tore his chest with its front paws, and the blood splattered the roots and stones.

The Mayas were losing. The circle was breaking. The jaguar was going to escape.

Aguilar did not think twice.

—Ix Balam! —he shouted—. Now!

Ix Balam launched himself at the jaguar with his machete in hand. Rodrigo followed, sword raised, and together they interposed themselves between the animal and the exit of the clearing. The jaguar launched itself at them, eyes bloodshot and mouth stained red.

—Ordaz! —shouted Aguilar.

Ordaz fired his arquebus. The thunder made the air tremble, and the jaguar, struck in the side as it jumped, fell on its side with a howl in front of Ix Balam. The animal remained on the ground, kicking, blood gushing from the wound and its eyes still fierce.

But it did not die. It rose, staggering, its breathing ragged. Ix Balam did not retreat. He stood still, machete raised, looking it in the eyes. The jaguar looked at him too, as if it recognized him. And then it collapsed again.

Ix Balam approached. The jaguar tried to rise one last time, but it had no strength left. Ix Balam put a knee on its side and drove the machete into its chest. The animal gave a spasm, its eyes still fixed on his, and then it was still.

Silence returned to the clearing. Only the agitated breathing of the men and the dripping of blood on the earth could be heard.

The old hunter turned toward Aguilar. He looked at him for a long time, without saying anything. Then his eyes rested on the jade necklace Aguilar wore around his neck—the one Zazil had given him—and something in his expression softened.

—That necklace —he said—. It is from the city of Potonchán. How did you get it?

—A Maya woman gave it to me. Her name is Zazil. She is the wife of a man who was a dzul, like me, but who is now Maya. His name is Na' Chan Kan.

The old man raised his eyebrows.

—You know Na' Chan Kan?

—Yes. I have been in his village. Three days ago I spoke with him.

The old man fell silent. The other hunters exchanged glances. Then the old man made a slow gesture with his head.

—Then you are a friend of the Mayas —he said—. You may pass.

Aguilar bowed his head in gratitude.

—Have you seen the bearded men? —he asked—. Did they pass through here?

The old man pointed north.

—They passed three days ago. They were going toward the coast. They carried four-legged animals we had never seen. The children were afraid of them. But the bearded men did us no harm. They went on their way.

—And they asked you for nothing? They did not take food?

—No —replied the old man, with a mixture of surprise and distrust—. They passed and asked us for nothing. They only asked about the road. The one who speaks your language, the one with white skin and light eyes, said they came in peace. Is that true?

Aguilar nodded.

—It is true. They come to know your lands. Not to harm you. But not everyone understands it that way.

The old man looked at him attentively.

—You are different from them —he said—. You speak like us. You walk like us. Why do you not stay with us? Why do you follow the bearded men?

Aguilar felt the weight of the question. For an instant, he considered the possibility. To stay. To forget the Spaniards. To forget Cortés. To live the rest of his days in a Maya village, like Guerrero, like Balam, like so many others.

But then he thought of the scribe. Of Malintzin, who was barely beginning to learn the words of Spanish. Of the map Cortés had unrolled, with its ink lines tracing routes toward the heart of the Mexica empire. Of the cross nailed in the temple of Kukulkán, which he himself had helped to erect.

He could not stay. Not until the circle closed. Not until all the pieces fit.

—Because I have not yet finished what I came to do —he replied at last—. But perhaps, when everything is over, I will return.

The old man made a slow gesture with his head, as if that answer satisfied him.

—Then go —he said—. But first, come closer.

The Maya hunters approached the body of the jaguar. The old man crouched, sank his fingers into the animal's wound, and smeared the blood on the palm of his hand. Then he turned to Aguilar and traced two red lines on his cheeks, from cheekbones to jaw. He did the same with Rodrigo, with Ordaz, and with Hernán. When he reached Ix Balam, he stopped an instant, and then traced the same marks, but with a different gesture, almost solemn.

—The blood of the jaguar protects you —he said, in Maya, and Aguilar translated—. Now you are men who have hunted with us. Now you are part of this land.

Hernán touched his face with his fingers, surprised. Rodrigo said nothing, but for the first time since they had started the journey, his face showed no distrust. Ordaz smiled, though tiredly. Ix Balam, however, looked at Aguilar with a new expression, as if he had just discovered something he did not know about him.

Aguilar bowed his head.

—Thank you for the warning. And may the gods protect you.

The old man smiled, showing his teeth stained with chicle.

—May they protect you too, dzul. Although you are no longer entirely dzul, are you?

Aguilar smiled, but did not respond. He turned and signaled to the soldiers that they could advance. Rodrigo, Ordaz, and Hernán, who had observed the scene without understanding a word, followed him in silence. Ix Balam, however, had followed part of the conversation.

When they were out of reach of the hunters, Rodrigo approached Aguilar.

—What did they say?

—That the Spaniards passed three days ago, that they did no harm to anyone, and that further north there are peoples who do not want us. And that the blood of the jaguar protects us.

Rodrigo touched his face, where the red marks were beginning to dry.

—And is that true?

—For them, yes —replied Aguilar—. And that is what matters.

Rodrigo fell silent, processing the logic.

—It is strange —he said at last—. That some Indians you do not know would help you.

—It is not strange —replied Aguilar—. It is human. And the Mayas are as human as we are.

Rodrigo said nothing more. But Aguilar noticed that his step had become a little firmer. As if that encounter, that conversation, had stirred something inside him.

Ix Balam approached Aguilar.

—The old man was right —he said, in a low voice—. The peoples of the north do not want us. If the bearded men have passed through there, they may have found trouble.

—I know —replied Aguilar—. That is why we must hurry.

They walked for another hour, in silence. The terrain kept rising, and the air smelled more and more of salt. But they did not see the sea. Only the wind, and the smell, and the certainty that it was near.

At dusk, they reached a clearing surrounded by rocks, on top of a hill. From there, among the trees, a different clarity could be sensed, as if the jungle were about to open. But there was no beach, no sand, no ship. Only the salty wind and the distant murmur of the waves.

—We camp here —said Aguilar—. Tomorrow, at dawn, we go down.

They set up camp beside the rocks. They lit a small fire, ate what little they had left, and lay down to sleep. Hernán, exhausted, fell asleep almost instantly. Rodrigo, however, sat beside Aguilar.

—Thank you —he said, in a low voice—. For the jaguar. If it had not been for you, perhaps we would not be here.

Aguilar nodded.

—Anyone who knows the jungle would have done the same.

—But not everyone knows it. You do. And that is what matters.

Rodrigo fell silent for a moment. Then he pointed north, toward where the wind brought the smell of salt.

—Tomorrow, at dawn, we continue. How much do you think we have left?

Aguilar looked at the dark horizon.

—If the terrain does not worsen, perhaps half a day. Maybe less. But it depends on what we find.

Rodrigo nodded and stood up.

—Rest, friar. I will keep watch.

Aguilar lay back on the hard earth. He closed his eyes. And he slept without disturbance.


XXII

The Beach

The next morning, they broke camp and set off again. They walked in silence, eyes fixed on the path, when Ix Balam made them stop. He had smelled smoke in the wind.

—It is the fire of men —he said—. Not of cooking. Of camp.

Aguilar looked north. Among the trees, a column of smoke rose straight in the still air. Aguilar's chest tightened. The men let out shouts of joy. Rodrigo, however, smiled. It was not a wide or joyful smile, but that of a man who has walked too much and who, at last, sees the end of the road.

—Let's go —said Aguilar—. Let's not stop now.

They quickened their pace, forgetting fatigue, stumbling over roots and branches, eyes fixed on the smoke. The breastplates, now dry, struck their sides as they walked, and the helmets, hanging from their packs, jingled with each step. Half an hour later, the jungle opened, and they saw the sea. And on the beach, anchored near the shore, they made out a Spanish ship with its sails furled.

They had reached the expedition.

Aguilar stopped for a moment, his heart pounding against his ribs. Beside him, the others laughed and cried at the same time. Rodrigo, more serene, merely placed his hand on Aguilar's shoulder and squeezed gently.

—We made it, friar —he said—. Thank God.

Aguilar nodded, without words. They walked toward the beach. Their feet, sore and blistered, barely felt the contact with the sand. On the shore, several soldiers were filling barrels with water from a stream that flowed into the sea. The expedition had camped there to provision before continuing north. Seeing them, some recognized them and greeted them with shouts of surprise and joy.

—You made it!

—The captain will be glad!

Aguilar raised his hand in greeting. Emotion closed his throat. He walked toward them feeling his legs give way, but he did not stop.

—The captain —he said at last, his voice hoarse—. Who is your captain?

One of the soldiers stepped forward, wiping his hands on his doublet.

—Captain Jaramillo, father. His ship is anchored a few hundred paces away. He separated from Cortés's expedition to wait on the coast, in case you returned. Come, we will take you.

Aguilar nodded. He turned to his men.

—Stay here —he said—. Rest. There will be time for you to come aboard.

They obeyed. They loosened the straps of their breastplates, which they had carried on their backs for days, soaked with sweat and salt, and the iron fell onto the sand with a soft thud, and they let themselves fall onto the sand, beside the water barrels waiting to be loaded, letting out a long sigh. Those who were there surrounded them, asking about the road, about the jungle, about what they had seen.

Before climbing into the launch, Aguilar stopped. He looked back. The soldiers who had accompanied him rested on the sand, while they told their companions on the beach about the crossing through the mangrove, the death of the jaguar, and how the savages had made marks on their faces. Beyond, the jungle closed over itself, as if a path had never existed. And somewhere, under a stone, it had already exacted its price.

Aguilar said nothing. He only looked for an instant. Then he climbed into the launch.

The oars beat the water. The hull grew larger with each stroke. Aguilar looked at Ix Balam, sitting opposite him, his gaze fixed on the ship. The young Maya said nothing, but his eyes took in everything: the rigging, the sails, the dark and enormous hull rising before him. He had never seen such a thing.

The launch bumped softly against the side of the ship. From the deck they threw down a rope ladder. Aguilar took it with trembling hands and held it while Ix Balam began to climb. When the boy reached the rail, several hands helped him over.

Aguilar climbed after him. When he reached the rail, he placed his hand on the wooden railing. It was cold, damp with salt, worn by time and the sea. He closed his fingers around it, and for an instant the world stopped.

The sailors approached Ix Balam with curiosity, looking at him as if he were a creature from another world. They offered him water, a piece of bread, a place to wait. He accepted the water, nothing more. The gazes remained on him, heavy, curious.

The salty wind struck his face. He looked around: the furled sails, the unmistakable smell of tar and old wood. Then he felt that he was home again.