The Ugly One Read online

  I hope you don’t judge me too harshly for saying nothing. I was frightened of Ucho, and to fear someone is to give him power over you, the power to silence your voice and cause you to hide your face from the world.

  Ucho was cruel, and I was a coward, and the Paqo had witnessed it all and said nothing. Still cradling Sumac, I dropped to the ground. With my free hand I grabbed a fistful of dirt in frustration. I wanted to dig a hole in Pachamama and scream all of my rage and humiliation into her body. I would scream so loudly and for so long that I would yell away all the years of hurt built up inside me. I wanted Pachamama to take it all from me, and then I would fill in this screaming hole and be done with it. But how could I do this to Earth Mother, especially during planting season? How could I place all that anger and grief inside her body? Nothing would grow. What tiny seed could survive such pain?

  I stood and wiped my hands on my wrap. Slowly, I made my way to the guardian rock and the gathered people. I held the Handsome One closely and whispered to him as I petted his head, asking him to forgive me for my weakness, for allowing him to be injured. The bird remained still against my chest, except for occasionally letting out a squawk and stretching out his right wing as though to see if it was still sore.

  The guardian rock sat tall and proud in the midst of our fields. It was a living rock, for it had not been placed there by the people’s hands. Taller than Uncle Turu by a head, it had protected and fertilized our crops and received our prayers and sacrifices from the time of our ancestors.

  As the people approached the guardian, each placed a small stone collected from the fields onto a pile at its foot. Many kissed their fingers and backed away reverently.

  The great Paqo came last. For the ceremony, he wore richly colored garments and a headdress with two golden-yellow feathers. His body clinked and clanked with each step, for he had attached golden bells to his knees and ankles. A brown pouch hung from his shoulder. The people cleared a path for him, and he walked directly to the rock and bowed low at the waist. With a flourish, he stood tall, kissed his fingertips gently, and raised his arms high above his head. Then he took out a small golden bowl filled with dried koka leaves and set it in front of the rock.

  As we watched, he ripped off the tips of his long fingernails one after another and placed them within the bowl, on top of the koka. Carefully, he set fire to the mixture. The leaves twisted and writhed in the flames, and a pungent smell tickled my nose before the smoke was lost to the sky. The people stood in silence as the offering burned itself out. With one mighty breath, the Paqo blew the ashes directly up and onto the proud guardian rock.

  Yawar led a llama, pure white and unblemished, to the front of the people. Then, in a booming voice, the great Paqo spoke directly to Inti: “May you always remain as young as you were on the first day, giving light and warmth forever!” To the rock he prayed, “You who have watered our land for so many years, through which blessing we gather our food, do the same this year also, and give even more water for a harvest greater yet!”

  Many people joined in this prayer now, shouting “Hailli! Victory!”

  In one fluid motion, the mighty Paqo pulled his tumi, his ceremonial knife, from his shoulder pouch. As Yawar held the chosen llama steady, the Paqo plunged the knife deep into its chest. The animal cried out—kicking its legs frantically as the people shouted, Hailli! Hailli!—then died swiftly, its death in honor of mighty Inti and sacred Pachamama. The Paqo filled the golden bowl with the llama’s blood and placed it at the foot of the guardian rock. I thought I detected a quick scowl on the shaman’s face, but then it was gone. Many spirits, some kind and some mischievous, hovered near us at such a sacred time, and one of them may have tried a trick of some sort. It wouldn’t make sense for the Paqo to be scowling while honoring the gods so well.

  Several boys took out their wooden quena quena flutes and began to play. To the sound of our singing, we made our way from the fields to prepare and enjoy a village feast. We had fasted for several days in preparation for the sowing, and there is nothing to bring joy to your step so much as the thought of a savory meal after a long day spent in the fields.

  7

  Yuraq Sara

  White Corn

  UNCLE Turu stood before the fire. There were smiles on many faces, for we had feasted well on deer and quwi stew, corn-dough loaves and quinoa, wild strawberries and large, juicy cherimoyas. Bowls of aca were still being passed around, and now it was time to listen to Uncle Turu and his stories.

  “Before I begin,” Uncle Turu said, “there is one last planting task before us.” Groans of disappointment sounded around the fire. What work could there be tonight? Now was the time to sit and relax and listen.

  Yawar stood, and though I was sitting at the edge of the group as always, I could still see his eyes dancing in the flickering flames as he announced, “Planting isn’t easy work.”

  The people agreed, nodding their heads and grunting, “Ari, ari.”

  “It requires the energy of all the people, and it is a sacred task that honors the gods.”

  More nods of agreement—and looks of confusion. Why say these obvious things now?

  “And so, when a member of our llaqta, our village, doesn’t do his share of the work, the entire village suffers. The gods may be angered. The safety of the people is threatened. We all know the most basic rules: Do not lie, do not steal, do not be lazy.”

  Yawar gestured behind him, and two of the older boys ceremoniously brought forward a large bowl, carrying it between them, and set it down.

  “It is time to wash our feet,” Yawar stated.

  I didn’t understand, but some of the elders seemed to know what was happening. And one of them, a man named Sutic, began to shriek. “Oh, no! I already told you, I wasn’t sleeping! I was praying to Inti with my eyes closed. Why don’t you believe me?”

  “Sutic, you were snoring. We could all hear,” Uncle Turu said with a bemused expression.

  Several of the men held Sutic down as the people filed by the bowl, dipping their feet, dirty from the work in the fields, into it one by one.

  “Papa,” I whispered, moving next to him in the line. “What is happening?”

  “Ah, Daughter, it has been a long time since anyone in the village has been judged guilty of so horrible a crime. Sutic was caught sleeping in the field when he should have been toiling with the rest of us. He has been warned before. Now he will learn.” Papa waved a clenched fist in the air, but a smile whispered on his lips, and he made no attempt to conceal the delight in his voice.

  By the time I dipped my feet into the water, it was so dark and murky, my skin was dirtier than before I had washed. The unforgiving night air enveloped my toes, turning them cold and uncomfortable. I quickly made my way back to the edge of the fire, wrapping myself tightly in my woolen cloak. Sumac sat on my shoulder, as always. I pressed the tip of my nose into his feathered belly for further warmth.

  All this time, Sutic hadn’t stopped his howling. Now, kicking and writhing, he was brought before Yawar.

  “Sutic, you are guilty of endangering the people with your lazy ways,” Yawar announced in a loud voice. “To atone for this crime, you will drink the water that cleansed us from our labors.”

  Now there were shrieks from the people around the fire, but these were shrieks of excitement. Sumac’s claws dug more tightly into my shoulder. He was agitated by the noise and began swaying left and right. I put my hand on his head to calm him.

  “Drink it, Sutic! Get your first taste of hard work!” Papa said, clearly amused by his wordplay.

  Papa was not known for his hard-working ways. He could easily suffer Sutic’s fate if he wasn’t careful, but he seemed unaware of this as he slapped his knee and laughed with those around him. I thought of quiet Hatun, my older brother, slaving away on the distant roads. He was so different from our father. I admit I judged Papa poorly for his actions. I didn’t understand then what I realize now: Papa was frightened that fingers would someday po
int in his direction. His jokes and loud noises hid any such fears well.

  Sutic’s eyes darted here and there like those of a cornered rabbit. Yawar stood next to him, his expression fierce. He would not let Sutic escape.

  In one final attempt, Sutic pleaded with the crowd. “Please. I won’t do it again. I have gotten a bit old, you see.”

  This was true. Sutic’s back stooped. The lines on his face spoke of many years of laughter and sorrow. He wasn’t far from the age when planting wouldn’t be expected of him any longer. For a moment I wondered if the people might make me drink the dirty water as well, since my body was disfigured like Sutic’s. I studied the crowd for signs that I would be joining the old man. But the people’s eyes were only on him.

  Ucho and his group crouched on the other side of the flames, grasping their sides in laughter and pointing at the frightened man. Chasca and Mama sat together. Mama’s arm rested casually around her beautiful daughter’s back.

  Yawar held up the bowl of filthy water and handed it to the old man. Sutic’s hands were trembling, and some of the water sloshed over the sides and onto his cloak. Slowly, he struggled to raise the bowl to his lips. To the calls and laughter of the people, Sutic tilted the bowl back and drank. His throat bobbed as he swallowed and swallowed. Long before he emptied the bowl, he fell to the ground, retching horribly.

  The people were still laughing as Cora, Sutic’s wife, silently made her way to him and helped him rise. Rubbing his shoulders, she led him toward their wasi, Sutic leaning heavily on her for support. Cora looked back longingly as Uncle Turu stood once more before the fire, and I understood. I, too, would be sorry to miss Uncle Turu’s stories on a night such as this.

  ***

  “Ñawpa pachapi, once upon a time, there were three brothers living with their parents.” There were many sighs of contentment. Uncle Turu always told this tale after we planted, in honor of the sacred corn and Pachamama.

  “It was the time of the corn harvest, and it was the oldest brother’s duty to guard the family’s bountiful fields. But he was newly a man and did not always take his job seriously. Each night, he would rest his eyes when he should have been watching, and cobs of corn would mysteriously disappear. Each morning, his mother would screech and scold him for being so lazy.” Uncle Turu paused, allowing the word lazy to hang in the air and echo in the minds of the people. There were quiet chuckles throughout the crowd. More than one person mimed Sutic retching on the ground.

  “Finally, the brother vowed he would stay up all night long to capture the thief. That evening, he didn’t wear his warm wrap, so that the cold would keep him alert. Crouching behind a field rock, he waited. And waited. The night was silent and long, and still the brother waited.” Uncle Turu paused and let the cold quiet of the night air play its part in his story. Then he went on. “As Mama Killa rested full in the night sky, some of her children, the stars, descended to the earth in the form of beautiful women with long, golden-white hair. As the brother watched, the star women floated into the corn fields and began to feast on the ripe corn.

  “At first the brother didn’t know what to do. He was unprepared for such a sight. But the beauty of the star women was more than he could resist. In a mad rush, he pounced on the nearest one, grabbing her by the arm. She watched sadly as her sisters vanished into the night sky, leaving her alone with the young man, a cob of corn still clutched in her delicate hand.”

  Uncle Turu’s voice dropped to a whisper. I leaned in more closely to hear the words spoken by the star woman.

  “‘Please,’ she said in a musical voice, ‘let me go.’ She stared at him with sparkling eyes as her golden-white hair blew here and there in the night breeze.

  “The brother was young enough to be foolish still. ‘I won’t let you go,’ he said. ‘You have stolen from me.’

  “Her lovely round face was pale in the moonlight. ‘Yes,’ she said. ‘Let us talk.’

  “And so they talked. As punishment for her crime, the star woman agreed to live with the brother. She held up the stolen corn. ‘I can feed you forever with just this one cob of corn,’ she whispered, ‘but only if you honor two conditions: You must tell no one where I come from, and you must never look into my manca, my cooking pot.’

  “The brother agreed. He built them a wasi not too far from his parents’ home, and he and the star woman lived together happily. Much time passed. Every day, she would serve him the finest white corn boiled in sweet water from the lagoon. He didn’t know how she fed him day after day and night after night from the same cob of corn, but he was full and content.

  “The brother’s mother, however, was far from happy. Without her permission, her son had moved in with a strange, golden-haired woman. He often bragged of the fine white corn they ate every day. Where did it come from? And why did he never offer to share it with his family? It wasn’t proper for a son to keep the best food for himself.

  “The mother decided it was time to set things right and true. One day she visited her son’s wasi. He was sitting outside, enjoying Inti’s warmth.

  “‘Mama,’ he said, ‘what a wonderful surprise. My wife is at the lagoon, but when she returns, we will eat. You must join us.’

  “The mother hadn’t expected such an invitation and was pleased. Still, she had questions, and she was not to be distracted. She began asking her son about his strange woman and where their corn came from. At first the son was strong and refused to answer his mother. But she continued to nag at him until, finally, he revealed the secret agreement he had made with the star woman never to look into her cooking pot. He made his mother promise not to tell anyone of the secret.

  “‘Of course, my son. Now, why don’t you go get this woman of yours, and we can feast together as a family,’ she said slyly.

  “As soon as her son had gone, the mother went inside the wasi. There on the fiery stones of the hearth was a manca, hot and bubbling. Carefully, the mother lifted the lid and looked inside. Three small kernels sat in the boiling water. Only three kernels! How could this be?

  “The mother went outside just in time to greet her son and the star woman returning from the lagoon. The star woman offered a quiet, shimmering smile to the mother. ‘Let us eat together,’ she said. They entered the wasi, and the star woman walked to her pot. When she looked inside, instead of a steaming heap of fine white corn, she saw only three lone kernels, the ones she had placed in the pot day after day.

  “The star woman knew she had been betrayed. With tears in her eyes she said, ‘It is time for me to go.’ She ran straight toward the lagoon, with the brother following closely behind, screaming for her to come back.

  “‘Stop!’ he yelled after her. ‘You will drown!’

  “But she didn’t stop, and here an amazing sight was seen. The star woman appeared to both sink into the lagoon and rise up into the sky at the same time. The brother knew then that he had lost his star woman forever, and he was fiercely sad.

  “Soon after, the brother found the cob of corn the star woman had stolen from him so long before. It was missing only three kernels. In her honor, the brother planted all the remaining kernels, and it is said that the finest white corn grew from them. This is how white corn came to be on earth, in honor of the star woman and her beautiful golden-white hair. It is also said that the mother ran away in shame and that the brother joined the star woman in the sky when he died. So it was and ever shall be.”

  “So it was and ever shall be,” we chanted together.

  Papa yelled out, “And that’s why we men should never, never look into a woman’s cooking pot.” Papa wasn’t the only man who was afraid to look into his wife’s manca. Many of the men felt it was bad luck to do so. There were nods of agreement and snorts of enjoyment. The aca was all gone, but the laughter it brought was still present in many of the people.

  Uncle Turu smiled and moved away from the fire. The people groaned in disappointment.

  “One more!” they cajoled. “Just one more story, Turu!”


  Pleased, Uncle Turu resumed his place in front of the people. “Which should I tell?” he asked, stroking his chin with his fingers.

  Ucho’s voice rose from the crowd. “How about the one in which the lady marries a condor?” He and his group snickered, and several of the boys looked my way.

  In this story, a condor falls in love with a lady and tricks her into becoming his wife. She has to live up high in his nest, dirty and ragged, eating rotten meat.

  Sumac was asleep on my shoulder, his head turned around so his beak rested in the downy softness of his back. He was a handsome bird and didn’t eat meat of any kind. He also was not my husband, but this wouldn’t matter to Ucho. I stood quietly and moved away from the fire. I was sorry to leave. The story was one of Uncle Turu’s favorites. He liked to stretch his arms in condor flight and then wrap them around his body to become the poor woman huddled in a cold, shivering ball.

  “Where are you and your bird husband going, Ugly One?” Ucho hissed after me. No one else noticed or turned. Such was Ucho’s power over me, that his words could push me away from the one place where I could be truly happy. I didn’t look back, but I could hear Uncle Turu’s sure voice, already captivating the people. “Ñawpa pachapi, once upon a time . . .”

  8

  Yachachisqa

  Learning Girl

  THE time of the first rains arrived, but still Inti beat his golden rays down upon the hard, dry earth. No shoots showed from the fields where we had planted, and the people were restless and irritable. Some carried a look of quiet worry on their faces. Some whispered that soon the very stones would explode with the heat, that we would all go hungry. Boys who should have been covered in wolf skins, protecting the new growth from hungry animals, had nothing to guard.