Greta Gilbert - The Spaniard's Innocent Maiden

Or perhaps lust. When she had placed her mouth upon his that second time, she’d had to fight to retain her wits. His lips were so large and soft beneath the wiry hairs of his moustache, like doorways to some dangerous, hidden depths. Go ahead, he seemed to dare her, kiss me. See what will happen. Yet he had refused to kiss her back. It was that icy self-possession that had scared her the most, for she knew that beneath his self-control was a man who cared nothing for her.

Still, her risky diversion had worked. She had repossessed the ring and that was all that mattered.

Yet there he was, still following her. His unruly hair flew behind him in long, unkempt locks. His prominent nose remained slightly bent, as if it had been broken. And while he was the largest, strongest male she had ever beheld, his clothes were ragged and seemed unsuited to his muscular body. He was not divinely beautiful, as a god, but world-worn and imperfect, as a man.

If she had had any doubts about his mortality, they had disappeared when he had revealed the object that had saved his life. A codex! She had read many codices in her studies. They usually contained beautiful, colourful pictures of the gods and elaborate illustrations of the history of the world.

The bearded man’s codex contained not a single beautiful picture. Instead, it was full of symbols that looked like the corpses of tiny ants. But while the pages themselves clearly did not contain any useful information, they did perform a life-saving function: They had blocked the sting of the blade that would have punctured his heart.

No, he was not immortal, just fortunate—though the ease with which he followed her was making her reconsider his immortality once again. Even in his battle-weary state, his legs were as strong as a stag’s. She splashed across a small stream, then heard not a splatter as he leapt over it entirely, gaining ground. He was going to overtake her soon. After deceiving him as she had, only the gods knew what he planned to do to her when he caught her.

Then she had an idea. She was nearing the limits of Cempoala. She knew that maize and cotton fields had been planted in this area to help meet her city’s tribute requirements to the Mexica. If she remembered correctly, there was a large maize field somewhere after the stream she had just crossed. She ran due east, praying she would find the maize plantation where she supposed it would be.

Then, like a granted wish, there it was—a vast plantation of head-high maize. She slipped into the rows at the corner of the field and held herself still. In seconds, he arrived at the field’s edge and let out a great, bellowing laugh. In the heartfelt burst she heard resignation and what she thought was a twinge of respect. She had bested him.

He broke into an angry run. She could hear his heavy footfalls and the loud cracking and bowing of the stalks beneath his feet. What a fool he was! With each angry exertion, he signalled his location.

All she had to do now was listen for his movements and adjust her own location accordingly. Night would fall soon and her friend the darkness would keep her concealed as she slunk out of the field and made her way home.

The same thought must have occurred to the man’s mind, however, for in that very instant, he halted his search. She listened closely and thought she heard him march back across the same path he had forged.

Immediately she realised her error. She ran towards the edge of the field, but it was too late. She looked up, and there he was, looking down at her from the rosewood tree that towered over the field. He dropped with puma-like stealth from its high branches and was soon charging towards her.

There was nothing to do but run. His footfalls grew louder behind her and she felt tears come to her eyes as she imagined what he might do to her after he repossessed his ring. When he had grabbed her wrist, she had sensed his capacity for violence and she feared that she had now pushed him over the edge.

But, suddenly, it was she who was falling over the edge. It was as if the very earth had opened up to consume her and her heart leapt into her throat as she accelerated towards a certain, crushing death. Down, down she fell, kicking the air in terror as she careened into a dark chasm.

Then—splash. Not rock, but water broke her fall. Sweet, cool water—a pool without bottom. She held her breath as she plunged through the inky depths, letting her momentum slow. Instinctively, she began kicking.

She kicked and kicked, propelling herself upwards towards the murky light until she burst to the surface. She was exhausted, confused, terrified and never happier to be alive.

She had fallen into a cenote. The sunken, freshwater ponds were rare in Totonac territory and the Totonac priests kept their locations secret. Still, Tula had come across several on her journeys to the ocean and had always stopped to give thanks to the old gods that lurked in their mysterious depths.

‘I am humble,’ she sputtered now, to any god who would listen. It was her third encounter with death in only a few hours and she could not believe her good fortune. She looked inside her fist. She had even retained her golden prize.

But not for long.

Suddenly, the bearded man surged to the surface next to her, sending a wave of water splashing against the high walls. He had fallen into the cenote beside her and, when he saw her treading the water near him, he swam towards her with cold, terrifying purpose.

She glanced up at the high walls that surrounded them. They were made of smooth rock and were uniformly bare, save for a small cluster of roots that dangled over the edge, totally out of reach.

There was no escape.

He made no loud demands, no violent movements. He simply opened her fist and pulled the ring gently off her thumb. He slipped the golden prize on to his little finger, then narrowed his eyes at her.

She trod water to a dry, rocky area at the edge of the pool, trying not to reveal her fear. Then she lifted herself on to a boulder and pulled her legs up against her chest.

He was like a crocodile in the black water, his large muscular limbs making slow, menacing strokes towards where she sat. He hoisted himself up on to the rock beside her and she readied herself to make another deep dive.

He made no movements towards her, however. Instead, he placed his feet in the water and looked out over the pool. She saw him steal a glance at her legs, aware that the yellow fabric of her skirt clung to them.

She felt a strange thrill travel through her, followed by a withering dread. The light of day was fading fast. In a short time, they would not be able to see anything at all. The distance between the pool and the jungle floor was greater than the height of a house. No man—or woman—could bridge it alone.

But Tula had to try. She could not remain here alone with him. Even if she shouted loudly for help, nobody would be travelling in this part of the jungle at this time of day. If she did not escape now, she would have to pass the night with him.

She stood upon one of the rocks and jumped, uselessly attempting to grasp the cluster of zapote roots hanging down from above. She scraped the walls, struggling to find a toehold to sustain her weight. She collapsed back on to the rock in frustration.

They sat together in silence for what seemed an eternity. She knew that at any moment he could simply hold her under the water, or smash her head in anger upon the rocks.

Or worse. Much, much worse.

Surely he considered it. She had humiliated him, after all. She had used her womanliness to distract him so that she could once again steal his ring. It was a shameful thing, what she had done. A dishonourable thing. A Totonac man would be justified in seeking punishment for such an act. Any man would be within his rights to pierce her with cactus spines, or force her to breathe in the smoke of burning chilli, or worse.