THE INSURGENCE of
CHAN SANTA CRUZ
BOOK TEN:
THE BOOK of SKULLS
CHAPTER ONE
Some
years after these named incidents transpired, one may have encountered...
sauntering outside the central rail terminus (from whence Merida's passengers depart
or arrive from the northern line to Progreso and the
sea beyond, the southern, towards the frontier of the territory, or the new
overland routes south and west, connecting the Yucatan with the rest of
Mexico)... a boletero, or lottery seller,
maimed as such often were, clutching his tickets in one hand and waving the
stump of the other. With so many Generals crowding the public table, neither Porfirio Diaz, Francisco Madero nor Victoriano
Huerta in their turn had made provision for the common soldiers, tossed and
scarred by revolution's winds... nor had Don Venus, Villa, Obregon or any of
the multitude of interimos and pretenders.
Consequently, most local police allowed a few privileged veterans to peddle
tickets in such places where the public gathers. And, with the distinguished
procession of years, one such elderly boletero might
have found his place among the others, even though his injuries may not have
stemmed from a Federal shell or Zapatista bullet. "God will provide,"
would have been the reply of a policeman for... while many Syrians and
Lebanese, besides other followers of the Prophet, could be found in Merida...
the law did not countenance mutilations of the Arabic sort, so such an injury
would have been deemed merely the agency of a capricious Deity, and not a
retribution exacted upon evildoers.
Time
enough... and our one-handed boletero may have even
provided a summation of his calamity, especially if his prospect seemed
well-attired or sympathetic. "When I was a young man," the anciano would have said, "I worked at
the baling fabrica of Olegario
Solis Molina. He would become a governor of all Yucatan, señor.
And I remember, to the instant, the occasion upon which don Guillermo, the
foreman, demanded I remove some twisted fibers from that sharp, evil heart of
the baling contrivance at that very moment that Pedro, el imbecilo,
restarted the machinery... it was nine minutes, kind sir, and the night was
that last of the siglo, 1899, my good fellow. All
Merida was at fiesta, but the heartless don Guillermo demanded that we work
eighteen hours through the fin del siglo,
noon to dawn. And, so tired and weak from my loss of blood, I did not even
think to retrieve my hand... which had been severed as neatly as you may
please... nor would Guillermo permit any of my comrades to touch it, leaving it
upon the straw... as he declared... for the police. Well, it disappeared of
course... the foreman told an absurd tale that a little brown dog entered the fabrica and carried it away, and several of his creatures
more frightened than sensible confirmed this lie, so I was discharged without a
centavo in compensation. For this don Guillermo surely roasts in Hell, along
with Pedro and Governor Molina, but, as only a victim of their indifference, I
have only these boletos to support my family.
Now... you have the aspect of a lucky fellow, may I interest you in the five
peso book?
How
resolute is the life in its perplexity! For want of rest, a workman's accident
and the wholly natural instinct of hapless Anibál
convinced an intoxicated, romantically-aggrieved scion of the gente decente that
he was a monster, thereafter compelling him to live up to the importunities of
the lie. How diverting to that amiable troller in the
sea of souls, He who is respectfully addressed as don del
Muerte! Time he has portioned out to all… some in
great lengths and breadths, great ropy generations of valor or mediocrity;
others have been apportioned only a brief, shimmering slice of consciousness.
No matter... don del Muerte
will, in the end, have all! Be they Governors or Generals, or only the lowly campesinos in their palm huts, He... who is the true
International Harvester of all the nations... will collect and value them, even
those whom Baltazar Martinez himself turns away from
his poveda for want of the burial obolus.
For, in
the land before Columbus, all people paid their tribute to don del Muerte; they did not hide their ancestors, but fed their
flesh to children (as Juan de la Cruz still asks of us, though symbolically)
and placed their skulls in rows atop rows... sons atop fathers, resting on
their fathers' fathers. Mighty walls of skulls the mazehualob
built as bridges from the earth to sky, between the dark roads and the white...
and these edifices they called tzompalli.
Europe, entering the womb of the Americas, was grievously ashamed at seeing
their own mysteries literalized and its priests hurled down and scattered the tzompalli, leaving only the simulations in stone to amuse and
to admonish their children. But, in don del Muerte's
lordly estanción, the skulls of the mazehualob and ladinos, too, even the noble brows of the gente decente are arranged and,
from their rows, they speak their narratives; from bones are woven the
lineaments of history.
We have
passed some pages and some hours in another time and place, and this small
excursion is almost done for, now... like all histories (save those, perhaps,
of the Classical myths beloved by don Antonio Macias, where virtuous wives and
heroes find a sort of immortality as trees or stars)... there is but one
conclusion to exploits of men wherein their cord is loosed and their mat
unrolled, drawn to its uttermost dimension. Yet be their destiny a gilded
grave, surmounted by a fine monument of bronze and marble, or a common congress
in the meanest camposanto, don del Muerte values all the souls whose tethers he has drawn
across his palm; with Him let us turn these last pages of the days of science
and insurgency... our Book of Skulls.
Let us name, then, times and places... beginning with a slight
detour from the destiny of the Jaguar Priest into the past, namely a warm
afternoon early in November, 1912. With the cessation, at last, of rain
in the states of Puebla and Morelos... "Imagine!" said Patricio, the jefe of Cuahtenotl to a somber Padre Luis, "...a norte, a tífon from the West, and then another norte!"...
General Angeles had resumed his pursuit of Zapata through the foothills of the
Sierra Oriental and, higher up, in Cuahtenotl, Lord
Kin's reappearance sent temperatures soaring from near the freezing point to
thirty degrees centigrade, causing a fetid miasma to drift down over the
village. The source was quickly found to be a nearly demolished choza, containing two bodies... badly mauled by not only
the zopilotes, but by rats, wild dogs, ants and all
of the rest of the beasts, birds and bugs of the Sierra. It would have been
impossible to determine the sex or age of these remains... let alone their
identities... but for the careful instructions addressed to the jefe by he who had come and gone under the name of "Jorge Bustamente".
While
the corpses were removed by a team of borrachos,
deputized in their cell at the Palacio after a hard evening at El Gato Vasilante, and hauled down
the mountain to civilization, Patricio and Luis pondered the neatly arranged
documents... two death certificates, one witnessed by Kanegis,
the other by one of the jefe's reluctant pallbearers, the unfortunate Dionisio, with the full names of the decedents printed
thereupon, as well as the cause of decease: "Misadventure!" Also
there were burial instructions and a hundred pesos for the plots, and for
erection of a tombstone bearing the names "Guillermo y Ana Moscoso" and, under this, "Gerardo Moscoso" (so that there be no misadventure in the
course of interment, "Jorge" had identified him as "el
largo").
No
provision was made for the other, save the cafetero's
scrawled admonition: "Bury that one deep!"
When
the Padre went to the cemetery... with a few candles, bowls and cups from All
Souls' Night still upon the graves... he discovered that half the work of
digging up a new grave was done. Someone had visited the untended grave of the
last of the Moscosos and ripped the earth from its
bedrock, as if desperately searching for... what?
Luis
glanced to his sacristan, who shrugged and suggested... "Magic
beans?"
The
third certificate of death, which Patricio had sold to the self-proclaimed
agent of Sanborns, was also there... but this was
dotted with question marks at every blank space save those where the jefe had
penned "Misadventure" and where Dionisio
had made his mark. And there was something else, snagged under and round the
turrets of the insane asylum, a wispy, filmy sheath of a shroud of material
that neither priest nor policeman had ever seen before, a gossamer that blew
from their fingers as they unfastened it and floated upwards towards the
railroad tracks and the mountain summits. "It almost seemed like... a shedded snakeskin?" wondered Luis.
"Impossible!"
replied the jefe. "There are no snakes of such proportion here, or
anywhere in Mexico!"
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