Caribbean by James A. Michener
But very soon attention was diverted from them by the arrival of a long canoe, unprecedented in width and construction, whose rowers indicated in sign language that they had come from a big land far to the east containing tall mountains and fine rivers.‡ The legends of Cozumel held that a huge island lay well to the east, occupied by savages of a totally different breed. With these mysterious islanders men of olden times had sometimes traded Maya rubber balls and bits of green jade in return for cruder items, and Bolón assumed that these rowers were the very men his elders had sometimes spoken of.
It was obvious to him that they had traversed the same sea that he had speculated upon when gazing out from the towers of Tulúm. He therefore became one of the eager young men who conversed with the strangers; they knew no Cozumel words, but like all traders, were able to convey their needs and explain what goods they had to offer in exchange.
To his superiors, Bolón explained: ‘They are like the long-ago people you spoke about. They want from us only two things. Pieces of jade and rubber balls for their games.’
‘What have they to offer?’
‘Beautiful mats, best ever seen,’ Bolón said with enthusiasm, betraying the fact that he had become excited by the mysteriousness of their sudden appearance. ‘Seashells, beautifully carved. Rowing paddles of a strong new wood.’
When the rude men who now ruled Cozumel growled: ‘We have no need of paddles,’ Bolón unwisely protested this decision, pointing out that the time could very well come when the men of Cozumel might want to venture out upon the sea which these strangers had apparently crossed with ease.
‘No!’ the new rulers snarled. ‘The sea is not for us. We’re people of the land.’
But Bolón found himself opposed to them, for he had fallen under the spell of the sea that rolled in such majesty onto the eastern shore of his island, and he began to speculate upon its significance: If these men have come to us in their large canoe, perhaps others will arrive in much larger ones? Cherishing his thoughts, he began walking for hours along the shore, staring eastward as if striving to glimpse the lands which he suspected might rest invisibly in the distance. At electrifying moments during his speculations he began to comprehend secrets of the sea, and it seemed as if bolts of lightning struck his imagination: Is it not possible that the future of Cozumel will lie not with the mainland to the west where all things seem to be crumbling, but rather somewhere in this unknown sea to the east where things seem fresh and new? At the conclusion of one such vision he strode into the waves and cried: ‘Waters of the world, I embrace you,’ and from that moment his decision was made.
He associated constantly with the rowers of the canoe, taking them bits of jade from his mother’s store and rubber balls from his friends, and these items he used to trade for mats and carved seashells. Significantly, he did not keep these for himself, for he had conceived the idea that he might be going with the men when they left Cozumel, and if he did accompany them to their homeland, it would be foolish to carry with him the things they made. But he would pay a terrible penalty for this generosity, because one of his friends had turned informer, whispering to the authorities: ‘Bolón trades with the strangers despite your instructions, and he may even be considering sailing away with them.’
Both charges were true. Bolón had been so awed by his visit to Palenque that he had returned to Cozumel yearning to do something that would re-create the grandeur lost in that buried city. But now, with his temple destroyed and any possibility of his becoming a priest erased, he was casting about for other areas in which he could exercise his energy, and the idea of carrying Maya concepts of life to new lands became inviting. So one morning, without carefully exploring what such an emigration would entail, he hurried down to where the canoe was loading and indicated to the rowers: ‘I’d like to go with you,’ and they replied that he’d be welcome.
That night, after sunset, still unaware that the Cozumel authorities were closely watching his behavior, he told his mother: ‘I’ve been thinking. With the loss of everything here, maybe it would be better if I sailed with the strangers when they leave in the morning.’
For some moments Ix Zubin did not reply, for since their departure from Palenque she had been worried about her son’s future. Some of the signs she detected were ominous, like his constant association with the newcomers; others reassuring, like his increased maturity and willingness to discuss important matters with her. But what really disturbed her were his frequent wanderings along the shore, for she guessed that he had become infatuated with the sea. Recalling how profoundly it had affected him during their trip to Tulúm, she warned: ‘Bolón, do not fall in love with a stranger. Keep your feet dry.’
Trying desperately to determine whether her son was still a boy or had truly become a man, one night she shared her assessment with him: ‘At Tulúm you said you liked it better because it was bigger than Cozumel. Remember that foolish statement? Also, when the official in the palanquin passed us on the road, you said your ambition was to ride in one when you grew up. How silly. And on the ball court at Chichén you were a mere boy, playing with dreams.’
Then she reassured him: ‘But in seeking out honeybees on the trip, you were better than the men. In fighting off the rubber tappers, you were strongest of all. And with lovely, cross-eyed Ix Bacal you behaved as a proud and proper young man should. But it was in the explorations at Palenque that you really led the way—in uncovering the treasures … in understanding what you found.’
For some moments she rocked back and forth, bending from the waist, then she leaned sideways and embraced her son: ‘I took you away from Cozumel a boy. I brought you back a man.’ Then, taking his hands, she whispered: ‘You say you may be going away with the strangers in their canoe. That’s the kind of decision only a grown man is eligible to make. Well, you’re a man now. Think carefully, son,’ and she drew his hands to her lips and kissed them in a kind of benediction.
The realization that he might be leaving Ix Zubin forever overwhelmed him and he fell silent, not knowing what to say. Ill at ease about revealing the love he felt for her, he made a totally different observation: ‘It’s difficult when the world’s changing … when the old dies but you can’t yet see the new.’
In the hours that followed, these two good people who saw so clearly that their world was disintegrating, with nothing better to take its place, sat in a darkness alleviated only by the stars which they had studied so faithfully, and they became mourners for the death of Palenque and Chichén Itzá and even huge Mayapán that had served a useful purpose during its good days. They had been great cities motivated by worthy purposes, but they had either vanished or were in the process of doing so. Cozumel, too, was doomed, as fatally wounded as Tulúm, and soon there would no need for astronomers or mathematicians or men who knew how to make and use stucco. ‘Everywhere the jungle will reclaim the land,’ Ix Zubin said, but she refused to lament. Straightening her little shoulders as if to muster new resolve, she said: ‘New worlds, new tasks,’ but she could not envision what purpose either she or Bolón, trained as they had been, could serve in the new order.
The long night ended strangely, with mother and son sitting in silence, he desolate because he could not fathom his future, she even more anguished because she saw that with the destruction of her records her past too might be lost,§ and each convinced that the present must continue bleak.
A few days later Bolón had to make his crucial decision, for the newcomers had warned him: ‘On the morrow, we row back to our island.’ Upon rising, he ate nervously, kissed his mother, and wandered almost aimlessly down to where the canoe was being loaded, still undecided whether to jump into it for the great adventure or merely wave them an affectionate farewell. When he reached the water’s edge the men shouted: ‘Hola! Hola!’ indicating that he was invited to join them, but at the last moment he drew back and allowed them to depart.
Ix Zubin, watching from a distance, felt a surge of joy in knowing that he would sta
But as they approached their shack seven guards leaped upon Bolón lest he try to run down to the departing canoe, pinioned his arms, stripped him of his clothing, and informed him in loud voices: ‘You’re for the next sacrifice to Chac Mool. At the feast, three days hence,’ and they rushed him away to the wicker cage in which the human sacrifices were imprisoned while awaiting the feast day.
In wild panic Ix Zubin tried to rescue her son from this terrible end, but she was powerless; the rulers had lodged such serious charges against her that her pleas were nullified. She had gone on pilgrimage without permission. She had encouraged her son to have dealings with the strangers. And worst of all, she had kept in her possession pages of papyrus containing mystic calculations which ought to be administered only by men. Had custom allowed women to be sacrificed to the rain god, she would surely have volunteered to take her son’s place in the waiting pen. Instead, she had to suffer her grief and outrage alone.
In her lonely shack she reviewed the horror of the situation and her role in it: I took such pains to rear a worthy son … applied the boards to give him a noble appearance to his head … taught him the rituals of our temple … instructed him in the stars … trained him to be responsible … encouraged him when he met that lovely girl. What more could I have done?
She knew the answer: I could have demanded that he flee this dreadful island with those men in the canoe. He knew that his destiny lay in the sea to the east, but I intruded. Then came the most terrible recrimination of all: I helped to strike him down in the very moment when he became a full man, and to her mind’s eye came that final vision of him as he strode back from the seashore, his body bronzed by the sun, his mind and courage forged in the fires of his generation. Wailing to herself, she cried: ‘He was the best man on this island, and I helped destroy him,’ and she cursed the gods.
Bolón, held tightly in his cage, knew neither rage nor fear. His recent experiences at majestic Chichén Itzá and sacred Palenque had given him a new understanding. He realized that civilizations waxed and waned and that he was unfortunate in having been born into an era when old values were dying, dying beyond recall. He was glad that his mother had rejected her original plan of going to Mayapán, for he sensed that such a visit to a moribund center would have been not only unproductive but also depressing. Palenque, on the other hand, had been like a flame in a dark night, throwing beautiful shadows in corners that would otherwise have been completely dark. He was proud to be the inheritor of the men and women who had built Palenque.
Also, he remembered his sudden courage in fighting off the rubber tappers, for it had made him aware, now that he was seventeen, that a world of women waited with their own mysteries; life was twice as complicated and interesting as he had perceived it earlier. This thought did bring flashes of regret; he did not want to die before those other avenues were explored; he was unwilling to go before he knew from what lands to the east the strangers had come.
But above all, he was a Maya, profoundly indoctrinated in the lore of his people, and he truly believed that if he behaved poorly at his execution, he would bring shame upon his mother and a punishing drought to his island, and this he would not do. So he huddled in his cage, erased all fear, and awaited the moment when he would be taken to the stone altar beside which Chac Mool waited with the stone saucer resting on his belly.
At the appointed time the guards came to the cage, unlocked it and pulled him out, but this required no effort, for Bolón was in a hypnotic state. He saw the ruins of his temple as he was dragged along, but they signified nothing. He saw the waiting Chac Mool, but its hateful features no longer terrified him. He saw his weeping mother, but he was so self-benumbed that he could not even make a gesture of farewell.
Now the guards threw him roughly, face up, on the big stone altar, whereupon four young acolytes leaped forward to grab his arms and legs and pull them tightly backward so as to force his chest upward. Bolón actually watched with personal concern as the high priest, wearing a robe covered with arcane symbols painted in gold and blood and a tremendous headdress two feet high crawling with snakes and jaguars, lifted his obsidian knife, plunged it into the left side of the rib cage, drew it deeply across, and while Bolón was still alive, reached in and grabbed the beating heart, ripping it from its hiding place. Bolón remained alive just long enough to see his own heart placed reverently in the waiting saucer of Chac Mool.
On the very day that Bolón died on the island of Cozumel, a council of some importance was meeting in the Spanish city of Sevilla, where King Ferdinand and Queen Isabella listened attentively as a team of three learned savants cited six reasons why the Italian navigator Cristoforo Colombo, now converted into the Spanish supplicant Cristóbal Colón, was egregiously wrong in his preposterous theory that Asia could be reached by sailing westward out of a port in southern Spain:
‘First, we already know that the Western Ocean is infinite. Second, since the voyage he proposes would require at least three years, it would be impossible for him to get there and back. Third, if he did reach the Antipodes on the other side of the globe, how could he sail back up against the slope? Fourth, St. Augustine has clearly said: “There can be no Antipodes because there is no land down there.” Fifth, of the five zones into which the earth is divided, the ancients have assured us that only three can be inhabited. Sixth, and most important, if so many centuries have passed since Creation, is it reasonable that any lands can still wait undiscovered?’
When everyone present finished acclaiming the irrefutable reasoning of the wise men, Colón stepped forward, and like a tough-spirited bulldog refusing to surrender a bone held in its teeth, growled: ‘I know Asia lies where I say it does. I know I can get to it by sailing westward. And before I die, with God’s help I shall do so.’
The courtiers laughed. The royal couple looked at him in dismay and shook their heads. The wise men congratulated themselves on having helped Spain avoid error. But Colón marched out of the court still determined to pursue the great adventure in which he had unfaltering faith.
* * *
* From Tula in central Mexico, during the years 920–1205.
† When in the summer of 1959, I came upon this newly discovered wall, its glyphs were still undecipherable, for the Rosetta stone which would unlock the secrets of Maya writing has not yet been found. Recently, however, scholars in various countries, aided by computers, have begun to make translations.
‡ Cuba.
§ She was justified in her fear, because on 12 July 1562 well-meaning Diego de Landa, Fourth Bishop of Yucatán, seeking to protect Catholicism from Maya heresy, gathered all known copies of scrolls like the ones Ix Zubin and her grandfather Cimi Xoc had collected and burned them in a great bonfire. Only three in all Mayaland survived and it is from them that we know the history of this great civilization.
IN THE SPRING OF 1509 the courtiers attending the King of Spain in his temporary headquarters at Segovia just north of Madrid awaited anxiously the arrival of a caped horseman who had been expected some hours earlier. When he came clattering into the paved courtyard they rushed to help him dismount, but he vaulted from his horse, ignoring the offers of help.
‘How dare you keep the king waiting!’ they cried.
‘Gypsies camping under a bridge,’ he said curtly. ‘Set it afire cooking their stolen meats.’
‘Three times the king has summoned
‘And I wasn’t here to answer, was I?’ he snapped, but then as he brushed himself and discarded his cape, throwing it across his saddle, his momentary brusqueness dissolved into a gracious smile: ‘He’ll understand,’ and he headed for the palace door.
He was a tall man, with a small patch of red and gold brocade covering his left eye and a long-healed scar crossing his weathered cheek. He was Don Hernán Ocampo, forty-seven years old and a veteran of the triumphant wars Spain had recently waged to expel the Moors from Europe. His protracted military service in battle had been unusual in that as a young man he had been trained in law, not warfare. Following his military successes, he had proved so able at his chosen profession that he had become a licenciado practicing in Sevilla, where he had met and married a granddaughter of the Duke of Alba, and he had helped Ferdinand of Aragon consolidate so much scattered power that the latter ultimately became King of Spain. Since Ocampo had also helped arrange Ferdinand’s masterful marriage to Isabella of Castille he had reason to trust that the king would forgive his tardiness today. But when he was ushered into Ferdinand’s presence, he found the handsome monarch, a year older than himself and much more corpulent, in an ugly mood: ‘I’ve needed you, Ocampo. You must perform a major task on my behalf.’
Ocampo bowed with the lean grace of a gallant courtier and waved his left hand toward the king: ‘As always, Majesty.’ The familiar manner in which he moved and spoke, avoiding the word king as improper to be used among two men who had long worked together, almost said in words what each knew: Did I not lose this eye and gain this scar in your behalf?