Marah Ryan - The Flute of the Gods

“It sounds well,” agreed Don Ruy–“but the trail? Who makes the way? And what force is needed?”

For a guide the Padre Vicente had a slave of that land, a man of Te-hua baptized José, for five years the padre had studied the words and the plans. The man would gladly go to his own land,–he and his wife. All that was required was a general with wealth for the conquest. There were pagan souls to be saved, and there was wealth for the more worldly minds. The padre asked only a tenth for godly reasons.

Thus between church and state was the expedition of his Excellency Don Ruy Sandoval ignored except as a hunting journey to the North coast of the Cortez Sea–if he ranged farther afield, his own be the peril, for no troops of state were sent as companions. The good father had selected the men–most of them he had confessed at odd times and knew their metal. All engaged as under special duty to the cross:–it was to be akin to a holy pilgrimage, and absolution for strange things was granted to the men who would bear arms and hold the quest as secret.

Most of them thought the patron was to be Mother Church, and regarded it as a certain entrance to Paradise. Don Ruy himself meekly accepted a role of the least significance:–a mere seeker of pleasure adventures in the provinces! It would not be well that word of risk or danger be sent across seas–and the Viceroy could of course only say “god speed you” to a gentleman going for a ride with his servants and his major domo.

And thus:–between a hair brained adventurer and a most extolled priest, began the third attempt to reach the people called by New Spain, the Pueblos:–the strangely learned barbarians who dwelt in walled towns–cultivating field by irrigation, and worshipping their gods of the sun, or the moon, or the stars through rituals strange as those of Pagan Egypt.

Word had reached Mexico of the martyrdom of Fray Juan Padilla at Ci-bo-la, but in the far valley of the Rio Grande del Norte–called by the tribes the river P[=o] – s[=o]n-gé,–Fray Luis de Escalona might be yet alive carrying on the work of salvation of souls.

The young Spanish adventurer listened with special interest as the devotion and sacrifices of Fray Luis were extolled in the recitals.

“If he lives we will find that man,” he determined. “He was nobly born, and of the province of my mother. I’ve heard the romance for which he cloaked himself in the gray robe. He should be a prince of the church instead of a wandering lay brother–we will have a human thing to search for in the world beyond the desert–ours will be a crusade to rescue him from the infidel lands.”

Don Diego marvelled much at the briskness of the plans for a season of hunting ere his troublesome charge was well able to see out of both eyes. But on being told that the range might be wide, he laid in a goodly stock of quills and parchment, for every league of the land would bring new things to his knowledge.

These records were to be entitled “Relaciones of the New and Wondrous Land of the Indian’s Island” and in those Relaciones the accounts of Padre Vicente were to loom large. Among the pagan people his war against the false gods had been ruthless. Maestro Diego was destined to hear more of the padre’s method than he dared hope in the earlier days.

José, the Indian of the North whose Te-hua name was Khen-zah, went with them–also his wife–the only woman, for without her the man would not go in willingness. Two only were the members added by Don Ruy to the cavalcade–one a stalwart fellow of many scars named Juan Gonzalvo who had known service with Pizarro in the land of gold–had lost all his coin in an unlucky game, and challenged the young stranger from Seville for the loan of a stake to gamble with and win back his losses. He looked good for three men in a fight. Instead of helping him in a game, Don Ruy invited him on the hunting trip!

The other addition was as different as might be from the toughened, gambling conquistador–a mere lad, who brought a letter from the hand of the Viceroy as a testimonial that the lad was a good scribe if it so happened that his sanctity the padre–or his Excellency Don Ruy, should need such an addition in the new lands where their hunting camps were to be. The boy was poor but for the learning given him by the priests,–his knowledge was of little save the knowledge of books. But his willingness to learn was great, and he would prove of use as a clerk or page as might be.

Padre Vicente was not present, and the cavalcade was already two days on the trail, but Don Ruy read the letter, and looked the lad over.

“Your name is–”

“Manuel Lenares–and called ‘Chico’ because I am not yet so tall as I may be.”

“It should be Manuella because you look not yet so manlike as you may be,” declared Ruy Sandoval,–and laughed as the angry color swept the face of the lad. “By our Lady, I’ve known many a dame of high degree would trade several of her virtues for such eyes and lips! Tush–boy! Have no shame to possess them since they will wear out in their own time! I can think of no service you could be to me–yet–I have another gentleman of the court with me holding a like office–Name of the Devil:–it would be a fine jest to bestow upon him a helper for the ponderous ‘Relaciones’!” and Don Ruy chuckled at the thought, while the lad stood in sulky embarrassment–willing to work, but not to be laughed at.

He was dressed as might be in the discarded garments of magnificence, well worn and visibly made over to fit his young figure. His cloak of old scarlet, too large for him, covered a patched shirt and jacket, and reached to his sandal straps of russet leather:–scarce the garb of a page of the Viceregal court, yet above that of the native servant.

“You are–Spanish?”

Again the face of the youth flushed, and he shrugged his shoulders and replaced his velvet cap with its pert cock’s feather.

“I have more than enough Spanish blood to send me to the Christian rack or stake if they caught me worshipping the pagan gods of my grandmother,” he stated briefly, and plainly had so little hope of winning service that he was about to make his bow and depart in search of the Padre.

But the retort caught Don Ruy, and he held the lad by the shoulder and laughed.

“Of all good things the saints could send, you are the best,” he decided–“and by that swagger I’ll be safe to swear your grandsire was of the conquistadores–I thought so! Well Chico:–you are engaged for the service of secretary to Maestro Diego Maria Francisco Brancadori. You work is seven days in the week except when your protector marks a saint’s day in red ink. On that day you will have only prayers to record, on the other days you will assist at many duties concerning a wondrous account of the adventures Don Diego hopes for in the heathen land.”

“Hopes for:–your Excellency?”

“Hopes for so ardently that our comfort may rest in seeing that he meets with little of disappointment on the trail.”

For one instant the big black eyes of the lad flashed a shy appreciation of Don Ruy’s sober words and merry smile.

“For it is plain to be seen,” continued that gentleman–“that if Don Diego finds nothing to make record of, your own wage will be a sad trial and expense.”

“I understand, your Excellency.”

“You will receive the perquisites of a secretary if you have indeed understanding,” continued Don Ruy, “but if there are no records to chronicle you will get but the pay of a page and no gifts to look for. Does it please you?”

“It is more than a poor lad who owns not even a bedding blanket could have hoped for, señor, and I shall earn the wage of a secretary. That of a page I could earn without leaving the streets and comfort.”