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When the next day rolled around, I knew I had to get back to the viejos. I wanted badly to know what had caused such trouble so long ago. The clouds hung low over Izamal. The air was thick and heavy. When I reached the meeting spot, only Bitol was there. He greeted me in the usual way:” So, Perrito, you’re back again!”
“Yes, Don Bitol, back and with questions. Is Tio Kawil coming?”
“Tio? He is ‘Tio’ and I am ‘Don’ today? I know flattery when I hear it! What’s on your mind, Luca?”
“I want to know about Kawil’s grandfather,” I blurted out. He looked at me in a way that made me shiver.
“Okay,” he said. “I trust you, because you know how to keep quiet. I don’t want to cause trouble. It’s better that Kawil is not here today. And then he told me everything he knew about Kanyeb.
He was a great young man. He worked hard and was a natural leader of this town. One day some men from Merida came through here. They needed a place to spend the night. Kanyeb offered to feed them and give them a place to sleep. He gave them the traditional welcome in Mayan, “Maalob Kambe’en.” After dinner one of the men started to talk with his host: “So you are Kan-u-Uayeyab, protector of cities, eh?”
“‘Well, I am named for him,” he replied.
The stranger said, “It’s too bad you weren’t here in 1562.”
“What do you mean?” Kanyeb asked.
“I mean this place could have used some protection from De Landa.”
“From Bishop De Landa, the same man whose portrait hangs in the convent?” Kanyeb had been raised to believe in the goodness of Diego De Landa. Had he not ministered to our people? Had he not brought salvation to this region? These men must surely be wrong!
“Believe what you like, but De Landa brought Hell itself to this place.”
“Why should I believe you?” Kanyeb demanded.
“I have studied the history of this region. It’s all there in the University in Merida. Go there and find the truth for yourself.” And he told the details of the reign of Friar De Landa: of the bloody imposition of religious rule, of torture, and of false trials.
“I don’t believe any of it!” said Kanyeb. But he knew in his heart that the man spoke the truth. And from that day, he was changed. It all came to a head one Sunday morning. Kanyeb lingered outside the mission, just before Mass was to begin.
“Come sit with us,” said his neighbor. Kanyeb did not answer. His eyes seemed to see that which was not present, He was agitated beyond anything he had ever felt. The voice of Itzam`na clearly came to him: “Frey De Landa needs to have his sins washed away! Take him to the cenote!”
Yes! To that tranquil pool of clear and deep water! He rushed inside, snatched the portrait of Diego de Landa, and ran out. Half of the congregation chased after him, but no one could catch him. They found him at the cenote. The serenely calm water belied the turmoil on the elevated rocks at one side of this natural amphitheater. Kanyeb stood at the exact site of ancient sacrifice. “This man,” he said, pointing to De Landa’s portrait, “stole from you, and he stole from me. He killed our forebears. And worst of all, he made us poor by depriving us of our culture.” Gathering himself and clutching the portrait, Kanyeb threw himself into the cenote. He had never learned to swim, and the cold water enveloped him. He sank quickly into the depths. The stunned crowd reacted slowly. A couple of men dove in to save him, but he disappeared into the depths of that pool. Only after several minutes did the portrait of Diego De Landa surface. One of the boys waded out and gently plucked that portrait from its would-be grave.
“Dios Mio!” I exclaimed.
“And to this day,” Bitol continued, “if you look closely at that portrait, you can see the signs that it has, indeed, been in the water.”
This tale made me want to know more. For the first time I felt as though I had been living without purpose.
Morning found me up early. After my chores and a quick bite of rolled-up tortilla, I headed towards the great pyramid of the Maya Sun God, Kinich Kak Mo. I didn’t know why, but I felt pushed to climb the ten levels. I sat at the top, and I was in awe of this magnificent structure. I felt pride that my ancestors could have helped to build this temple which has stood for so long. Here, I was closer to those who have gone before. If I tried, I could see things the way they had been long ago. There were forces at work here. What did any of it mean? Who was I? For now, I could only feel. I prayed that later I would feel and know.
About Wes Oldham
2 Comments
I can,t wait for the next installment. It seems like a lot of research went into this. WELL DONE!
Vividly told. I could see the yellow walls and hear the clip clopping of the horse. Looking forward to the rest of this story.