Aztec Autumn

me—Tiptoe became a much better rider than I, and took delight in showing off her prowess. I at least managed to keep up with her, once I learned to urge my horse directly from the walk—not having to suffer the jounces of trotting—into the easier-to-sit gait of the galope.

During those days, too, as our aches and pains diminished, I instructed Tiptoe in the charging and discharging of the arcabuz, letting her use one of those I had taken from the soldiers. Rather to my consternation, she proved to be better at that, as well, than I was. That is to say, she could make the lead ball hit whatever she was aiming at, even at a considerable distance, perhaps three times out of five, while I had long considered myself adept if I could do the same thing one time out of five. My masculine pride was salvaged, though, when I exchanged weapons with her, and our respective score of punctured targets changed accordingly. It was evident that the soldiers' arcabuces were for some reason more accurate than the copy that the artisan Pochotl had made for me. I carefully examined all three of the weapons now in our possession, and could see no difference among them to account for that. But of course I was no expert on such things, and neither had Pochotl been.

So, from then on, Tiptoe and I each carried one of the purloined arcabuces. I deemed it prudent to keep them hidden in our bedrolls, and we took one out only when we wished to kill game for fresh meat. Tiptoe liked to make that her task, and was inclined to flaunt her marksmanship by bringing down rabbits and pheasants. But I cautioned her that the polvora was too precious to waste on such small creatures, especially because when the heavy ball did hit one, there was not much left of it to eat. Thereafter, she aimed at (and almost always hit) only deer and wild boars. I did not discard Pochotl's weapon, so painstakingly handcrafted, but kept it also hidden among our packs, in case it should sometime be needed.

On one of the nights of one of those days in the hinterlands, I again ventured to extend a caress to Tiptoe, in her blankets beside me, and again she fended me away, saying:

'No, Tenamaxtli. I feel unclean. You must have seen—I have grown a stubble of hair on my head and... and elsewhere. I feel that I am no longer a properly immaculate Purempe. Until I am...' and she rolled over and went to sleep.

Exasperated and frustrated, I made sure, during the next day's ride, to seek out an amoli plant and dig up its root. That night, when I roasted a boar haunch over our fire, I also set my metal flask of water to boil. After we had eaten, I said:

'Pakapeti, here is hot water and here is a soap-root and here is a good steel knife, which I have whetted to utmost keenness. You can easily make yourself a properly immaculate Purempe once more.'

She said airily, 'I think I will decline, Tenamaxtli. You have dressed me in man's clothing, so I have decided to let my hair grow out and make myself look like a man.'

I naturally remonstrated with her, pointing out that the gods had put beautiful women on this earth for other and better purposes than to impersonate men. But she was adamant, and I had to conclude that her defilement back there at the outpost had simply made the copulative act hateful to her—that she never again would couple with me or any other man. There was no objection that I could, in conscience, make to that. I could only respect her decision and, meanwhile, entertain two hopes. One was my hope that since Tiptoe now knew how to use an arcabuz, she would not take the whim to use it on the nearest male, that being myself. And I hoped that we would soon, in our journeying, come upon a town or village where the women had not, for whatever reason, decided to repel the advances of every man of mankind.

Instead, what we came upon, late one afternoon, was something totally unexpected—a troop of mounted Spaniards, most of them armed and armored, riding through this Tierra de Guerra—and we encountered them so suddenly that we had no chance of evasion. They were not, as I might have anticipated, a body of soldiers pursuing us to wreak revenge for what we had done at the border outpost. I had never ceased keeping a wary lookout to our rear. If I had seen any sign of a patrol approaching from behind us, I could have taken care to avoid capture. But this troop rode up upon us from the farther side of a hill that we were ascending, and obviously they were as surprised as we were when we met at the top.

There was nothing I could do except tell Tiptoe in Pore, 'Keep silent!' then raise a comradely hand to the lead soldier—who was groping for the arcabuz slung across his saddle horn—and greet him cordially, as if he and we were accustomed to meeting thus every day, 'Buenas tardes, amigo. ?Que tal?'

He stammered, 'B-buenas tardes,' and, with the hand that had been reaching for the weapon, returned my salute. He said nothing more, but deferred to two other riders—men in officers' uniform—who shouldered their horses up beside him.

One of them growled a vile blasphemy, '?Me cago en la puta Virgen!' then, eyeing my partial uniform and the army brands on our horses, demanded impolitely, '?Quien eres, Don Mierda?'

Disquieted though I was, I had wit enough to tell him the same thing I had told Padre Vasco, that I was Juan Britanico, interpreter and assistant to the notarius who served the Bishop of Mexico.

The officer sneered and exclaimed, '?Y un cojon!' a vulgar expression of disbelief. 'An indio on horseback? That is a thing forbidden!'

I was glad that our far-more-strictly-forbidden arcabuces were out of his sight, and said humbly, 'You are riding in the direction of the City of Mexico, Senor Capitan. If you like, I will accompany you thither, where Bishop Zumarraga and Notarius de Molina will assuredly vouch for me. It was they who provided these horses for this journey of mine.'

I do not know if the officer had ever heard those two names before, but my speaking them seemed to mitigate his disbelief slightly. He was less gruff when he demanded, 'And who is the other man?'

'My slave and attendant,' I lied, grateful now for her having chosen to pose as a man, and gave her name in Spanish, 'Se llama de Puntas.'

The other officer laughed. 'A man named Tiptoe! How stupid these indios!'

The first one laughed, too, then, derisively misspeaking my name, said, 'And you, Don Zonzon, what are you doing here?'

More composed by now, I was able to say glibly, 'A special mission, Senor Capitan. The bishop wishes to ascertain the temper of the savages here in the Tierra de Guerra. I was sent because I am of their race, and speak several of their languages, but also am manifestly vested with Spanish and Christian authority.'

'?Joder!' he rasped. 'Everyone already knows the temper of these savages. Their temper is ugly. Murderous. Bloodthirsty. Why do you think we travel only in unassailable numbers?'

'Just so,' I said blandly. 'I intend to report to the bishop that he might palliate the savages' temper by sending Christian missionaries to do humanitarian works among them, in the manner of Padre Vasco de Quiroga.'

Again, I do not know if the officer had ever heard of that priest, but my apparent familiarity with so many churchmen seemed finally to dispel his suspicions.

He said, 'We too are on a humanitarian mission. Our Governor of New Galicia, Nuno de Guzman, assembled this numerous company to escort four men to the City of Mexico. They are three brave Christian Spaniards and a loyal Moro slave, long believed lost in the far-off colony called Florida. But, most miraculously, they fought their way hither—this close to civilization. Now they wish to tell the story of their wanderings to the Marques Cortes himself.'

'And I am sure you will safely deliver them, Senor Capitan,' I said. 'But this day latens. My own slave and I had intended to proceed farther, but we passed a good water hole not a league back, sufficient for your whole troop's camping. If you will allow, we will return there to lead you and, by your leave, camp there with you.'

'By all means, Don Juan Britanico,' he said, companionably now. 'Lead on.'

Tiptoe and I turned our horses about, and as the company came clanking and shuffling and clattering behind us, I translated to her what had passed between me and the officer. She asked, her voice again trembly because she was speaking of white men:

'Why in the name of the war god Curicauri do you wish to spend the night with them?'

'Because the officer mentioned that butcher Guzman,' I said. 'The man who laid waste your land of Michihuacan and claimed it for his own. I had believed there were no Spaniards in these northern parts. I want to find out what Guzman is doing, so distant from his New Galicia.'