Carlos Fuentes - Terra Nostra

Now the warriors descended the steps, carrying the gold- and pearl-filled baskets, and delivered them into the hands of the man with the plumed crest, and he examined the contents of the baskets and then dictated words to the men with the paper scrolls, who traced signs on them with small sharp sticks with different colored points. Then the strange bearers added the baskets of gold and pearls of the people of the jungle to their loads and the young warrior of the black feather belt asked whether all was well, and the man with the crest nodded and said yes, the Lord Who Speaks, or the Lord of the Great Voice — for thus I translated his words — would be content with the tributes of the men of the jungle and would continue to protect them. The man with the crest made a sign to one of the attendants who fanned him constantly, and this man handed the young jungle warrior several of the reddish ears of fruit and many balls of cotton; the warrior prostrated himself and kissed the sandals of the man of the crest, and this, I believed, consummated the transfer of gold and pearls in exchange for bread and cotton, and that had been the purpose of the treasures of the sea and river, and the ancient had been the guardian and executor of the pact, a fact I understood clearly when the warrior of the black feathers thanked the lord of the crest for what he had given in exchange for their proffered treasures: “We thank the lords of the mountain for the gift of the red grain and the white cotton.”

Then, sadly, he stood silent while the man of the crest waited with folded arms for him to continue, and I, submerged in my basket, reckoned the exchanges of this ceremony of tributes: the men of the river and the jungle offered gold and pearls in exchange for bread and cloth. What more, then, did the man of the crest expect in payment for grain and cotton?

The warrior of the black plumes again spoke: “In exchange for your protection, we deliver unto you our fathers and women and children gathered here.”

My clouded vision returned and I saw that the old men and women and children were painted with the red ocher that had been so laboriously collected. The lord of the crest counted them and dictated words to the scribe and said that this number was good, that it would calm the furies of the day of the Lizard, the day when all the things of the world would bleed unless the goddess of the earth — who on this day suffers bitter cold until she is sprinkled with human blood — was fed. And then the old men and women and children were rounded up by the warriors of the crested lord and he said they would return when the day of the Lizard again coincided with the day of the Last Tempest, when the beautiful goddess of the swamps of creation to whom the gold and pearls of this coast would be dedicated found rest. And he said, too, that they should always guard their treasures well and should always deliver lives on this day, and thus they would always have the fruits of the cotton and the red grain.

“And now,” the crested lord concluded, “allow me to salute your chief.”

Everyone made way to let him pass and the man of the crest ascended majestically toward the spot where I sat half hidden in my basket. And as he climbed he intoned a chant, accompanied by flutes and bells and drums, and also by the cloud of butterflies and the silence of the jungle, his eyes, constantly focused on the distant sun high above the airy cemetery on the summit of the pyramid.

He stopped before me, and only then did he look at me. I saw his ashen face; he looked at my pale visage. He had expected to encounter the ancient man as usual; he found me, and his features were transformed; the majestic gravity disappeared and in its place appeared first astonishment, and then terror. I merely repeated the words that so intrigued me: “First man…”

The crested lord lost all dignity, he turned his back to me and ran down the slimy steps, he slipped and fell, his crest rolled to the base of the temple, he rose, screaming, and scattering everyone before him — the warriors of the people of the jungle and the warriors of the mountain, the men with the fans and the men with the scrolls, bearers and prisoners — he ran to the palanquin decorated with silver and hide and serpents, he knelt beside it, speaking in a low voice, his flaming eyes constantly turning to look toward me, and from an aperture between the skins appeared an arm ringed with heavy, jangling bracelets, a hand the color of cinnamon, with long black-painted nails.

The hand gestured, the crested lord hurriedly arose and in a shrill voice issued many orders: the bearers returned the baskets of gold and pearls to the base of the pyramid, with grotesque movements the warriors freed the jungle people, the men of the feather fans hastily retrieved the ears of grain and the balls of cotton, and all those who had come from the mountain disappeared into the jungle with the swift invisible movements of the lizard.

Sire: now you find me again in the village beside the river. I am confined within my basket, along with my mirror and my scissors. How I wish these objects, the ones with which I arrived, were my only possessions. But no. My trembling body warms and revives the fading pearls. My house is the house of the dead ancient: the bower, a weak structure of reeds. I am enclosed by four deerskins that serve as walls to isolate me from the world, although not from the sounds of the excited natives: shrill conversation, plaintive songs, discussions, and crackling bonfires.

Through the branches this night I can see the black tapestry of the heavens and count its stars, locate them in the heavens, distinguish them one from another. I must accustom myself to this dialogue with the stars. I fear that from now on I shall have no friendship except this cold, brilliant, distant one. As the old man saw himself in the mirror, I shall see myself in the twin star of the dusk and the dawn, Venus, the precious reflection of itself. She will guide my voyage toward absolute immobility. She will be my calendar.

Warriors surround my prison. Again and again I think upon this singular irony. I, the man without memory, occupy the place of the Lord of Memory. I, the stranger arrived from the sea, am the founder. I, naked and dispossessed, am the young chieftain. I, the last of men, am the first.

When I tire of gazing at the stars, I sleep. I do not look at the sky during the daytime, for the sun would set aflame my white eyelashes and pallid lids and blond beard. During the daytime I stare at myself in my mirror and begin to count my wrinkles, my white hairs, my bleeding gums and broken teeth. A prisoner in my basket, I shall wait for old age to devour me, and I shall become as ancient as the old man I killed with my mirror.

Now my mirror will kill me. My fate will be to watch myself grow old and immobile in this fleeting reflection.

THE BURNING TEMPLE

The heart is the kingdom of fear. Oh, moons, suns, days, stars … shelter me; water clock, hourglass, book of hours, stone calendar, swelling seas and storms … do not abandon me, but bind me to time. Dry smoke, shouting, weeping, wailing, silence: how shall I know finally whether it is the world around me or my own heart in which these mists and sounds originate? Through the way of fear I enter the kingdom of silence. I lose count of the days of Venus, repeating to myself that the days of my destiny in this strange land can be only the number set by the ancient in the temple: the days stolen from the days of the sun, the masked days stolen from the days of my destiny. How shall I know these five sterile days I must steal away from bad fortune for the purpose of delaying the moment of my death? Which signs? Which voices? How much time, my God, has passed since then? How old am I now?

The silence grew deeper. I realized it originated not in my heart but instead enveloped the jungle village.