The Ugly One Read online

  “New Voice, these travel days will be a good time for you to learn new lessons,” the Paqo said as we walked. He wore two golden-yellow feathers in his hair holder so others would recognize him for the powerful shaman he was. His feet set a fast pace, and I hurried to remain with him. Sumac dug his claws in deeply so he wouldn’t fall off my shoulder. He was quietly squawking a tune Mama liked to hum while she prepared the evening meal.

  “Yes, Paqo,” I said. A lesson from my teacher sounded exactly right. It would distract me from the newness of my surroundings and put me at ease.

  “You must study what you see around you. That is your lesson during our journey.”

  I laughed quietly at these words. The Paqo wouldn’t distract me from my unease; he would place it in front of me for inspection.

  He continued. “You will learn to speak with the world, New Voice.”

  “I will learn to speak with the world,” I said dutifully.

  It was his turn to chuckle. “I know this trick of yours. You mimic my words when you have no new ones. You don’t understand me.”

  “No.”

  “There is the language of the people, the human tongue, and there is also the language of the world. Here is the lesson: Let us speak to the world about the rain. What here tells you about rain?”

  I studied the surroundings. A small rock shrine sat on the left side of the road. Travelers had placed little stones, twisted straw, and dried flowers at its base to ensure a safe journey. The only signs of green were the pale patches of lichen strangling the living rocks on which they grew. It was dry everywhere. So dry. We kicked up dust from the road with each step, and it tickled and clung to the inside of my nose.

  “There is little water. There is much dust.”

  “True, but there is more to observe, and there is less to observe.”

  I remained quiet, trying to decipher what the Paqo meant now. I studied my feet as I walked, heel touching the earth, then the toe. Heel, toe, dust; heel, toe, dust. Less to observe?

  “What is missing here, New Voice?”

  “Water. Plants.”

  “Yes. The earth cries out to us with her dust. She speaks of her thirst through the dust. There are no maca-maca plants sprouting upward. This path should be filled with heart-shaped hoof prints from the deer, but no. No maca-maca, no deer. If the plants die, we die. All are one.”

  It was easy to see the earth was thirsty, but could we listen to her well enough to know if it would rain? Could we make it rain?

  “Will the rains come?” I asked.

  “That is the purpose of the Gathering. But it will not rain today.” The Paqo pointed to some thin clouds that tore themselves upon the jagged-crested mountains in the distance. “Those clouds don’t speak of rain. They will dry up before they can shed a drop.”

  It was at this point that we saw our first fellow traveler. I knew immediately he was a chasqui, a foot messenger, one of the men who ran along the roads delivering news and goods to the four corners of the empire. I had never seen one before, but I had heard of them, and it was easy to sight him with his sunbonnet covered in white feathers and his shell horn. He slowed as he neared us. Reverently, he placed the tips of his fingers to his mouth and kissed them in honor of the Paqo.

  “Mighty Paqo, it is good to see you.”

  The Paqo nodded his head in acknowledgment. “Are you on the fish route?”

  “Yes. I have just handed it off to the next runner.”

  The Paqo explained to me, “The runners deliver fish from the ocean all the way to the capital city. The emperor enjoys eating freshly caught fish at least once a day.”

  There was a pause, then the chasqui said awkwardly, “Mighty Paqo, might I ask something of you?”

  “Of course.”

  “Could you read the leaves for me? I would like to know some things that will come to pass in my future.”

  The Paqo nodded and removed his koka pouch from his side. It was made of brown vicuña wool, a luxury reserved for the highest of noblemen and shamans. Carefully, he extracted a handful of dried leaves from within. The messenger cupped his hands, and the shaman placed the green pile inside the eagerly outstretched palms.

  “New Voice, step away,” the Paqo said quietly. “This is a private task.”

  I watched from a short distance as the shaman studied the koka plant intently, examining the leaf patterns and listening to their inner wisdom. The chasqui remained very still, very silent, so as not to interrupt the Paqo’s concentration. Finally, I saw the Paqo’s lips moving, telling of what he saw in the runner’s future. Both faces were grave, and when the Paqo was done, the messenger’s expression was fearful. I waited until he had said his thank-you and goodbye before approaching my teacher again.

  “His face spoke, Paqo. It spoke of bad news.”

  The Paqo watched the chasqui’s figure as it grew smaller along the path. Soon it disappeared altogether around the nearest bend.

  “I cannot share another’s future with you.”

  “I wasn’t asking.”

  “You wouldn’t object if I told you.”

  I admit I was curious to know what the Paqo had said to make the poor messenger so fearful. “True.”

  “It can be a dangerous thing, to learn of your future.” My teacher turned to me with sad eyes. “Would you ask me to read the koka leaves for you, New Voice?”

  It had never occurred to me to request this of my teacher. I didn’t feel prepared, especially to receive bad news as the runner had. “Not today, Paqo.”

  My teacher nodded his head in approval. “Good, New Voice.” His face clearly spoke to me as he said this. It spoke of relief.

  ***

  There isn’t much to tell of the next few days as we made our way to the shaman gathering. We set a brisk pace, walking what felt to be great distances away from home, slowing only when the path became steeper. At night, we slept in the guesthouses. The Sapa Inca’s men collected food from the villages every season and placed it in the many storehouses for travelers and for the people to eat in the years when the crops didn’t grow. The Paqo told me that these guesthouses were normally stocked with corn, potatoes, and dried strips of llama meat, as well as wood for fire. All the storehouses we encountered were empty now except of firewood. It was good that we had brought our own food, but I feared that without rainfall the storerooms would remain empty and the people would wither and die like the kernels they had planted in the ground.

  Each night our presence was recorded on the quipus, colored strings tied to a long branch of wood. The quipu recorders placed intricate knots in the strings to indicate our ages and our purpose for traveling. They also noted the supplies we used from the storehouses so they could be properly restocked, though we used only the firewood. I wondered what they thought of Sumac, riding as always on my shoulder, but no one questioned his presence.

  On the last day, we began descending. I saw mosses and fruit trees and crop fields filled with peanuts, chili peppers, and koka leaves. The cloud forest air was rich and thick to my lungs, which were used to higher, thinner air. I inhaled its green, living scent. It was on this day that I first spoke right and true with the world.

  The Paqo was again speaking of the importance of listening and watching properly. “The more you observe, New Voice, the more you understand. Once you can interpret the voice of the world, you become its revealer. Birds are strong messengers of the world.”

  I agreed. “Sumac has been an excellent messenger. He brought me to you.” I reached up and stroked the bird slowly on his belly and under his wing. This was a favored spot. He leaned his head into my cheek for support and lifted the wing higher, letting out small squeaking sounds of contentment.

  “Yes, but let us discuss other birds. The condor. The hummingbird. They are opposites, no? They balance each other.” The Paqo spread his arms wide like condor wings. “The condor is big, slow. It lives on the flesh of the dead and transports the dead to Beyond.” He brought his arms close
to his sides and fluttered them quickly. “The hummingbird is small, fast. It lives on flowers.”

  As if he had called it to us, a small hummingbird suddenly flitted past, hovering in the air in front of us before swerving off to the left.

  The Paqo beamed. “A message for us!” He stopped walking and asked, “New Voice, what did the hummingbird reveal?”

  I pulled my hand back from Sumac to scratch my head in confusion. The Handsome One squawked in protest, then fluffed himself out and began preening his belly feathers as if to show he didn’t need my assistance.

  I wondered, had the hummingbird come from Beyond? And if not, where had it come from? We hadn’t seen other such birds on the journey.

  “Aha!” I yelled loudly enough to surprise both the Paqo and Sumac.

  “Yes?” the shaman urged.

  I stood tall as I spoke, for I knew I had figured out the answer to this world riddle. “The hummingbird told us that our journey has almost ended. We are near to Wiñay Wayna.”

  “How do you know this to be so?” the Paqo asked with a serious face, but I could see he was pleased.

  “Hummingbirds live on flowers. Birds and flowers, they are as one. Orchids and other flowers grow at Wiñay Wayna. It is named for them. The hummingbird must be near its home. It came to greet us.”

  The smile my teacher offered shone almost as brightly upon me as the golden rays of Inti. I basked in the warmth.

  “You have spoken well with the world today, New Voice. We have been welcomed to Wiñay Wayna. Our journey is over. We have arrived at the Gathering.”

  16

  Wiñay Wayna

  Forever Young

  IT is difficult to tell you right and true how I felt walking down the stone steps to Wiñay Wayna. Imagine a pool of water, a large puddle perhaps. See this puddle in your mind. Bring it into being. Now imagine a rock thrown into its center. The water moves, splashes for a moment. Now see many rocks being thrown into the puddle. Water ripples and splashes everywhere. The dirt from beneath is stirred up and browns the water. Rock after rock is thrown into the puddle, and mud and water churn. My stomach was this puddle. The rocks were the many questions and fears within me. Would I be shunned by the other shamans? What was their true opinion of my teacher? What would the Gathering be like? Would we be able to speak with the gods? Would it rain? These rock questions piled up inside me, but I tried to keep a calm outside as the Paqo, Sumac, and I made our way toward a group of five shamans standing near one of the small trickling fountains.

  They turned as one to face us when we neared. Four of them were shaman priests, the last a priestess. All wore the traditional dual golden feathers, the color of the sweat of the sun. The lines in their faces spoke of many years of healing and listening to the people and the world. Their eyes were deep lakes filled with old wisdom. The woman’s hair flowed long and silver, and she held a beautifully carved wooden staff for support. All placed their fingers to their lips. The Paqo and I also kissed our fingers, and I bowed deeply.

  “Welcome,” the woman said with a smile filled with confidence and grace.

  One of the men was somewhat younger than the others and more elaborately decorated. Large plugs of pure gold shone in his pierced earlobes. A necklace of jaguar teeth and carved seashells hung heavily upon his chest. There was strength in his high cheekbones and curved nose as well as in the way he held himself. But it was the manner in which the other four stepped subtly aside as he approached the Paqo that told of his supreme authority. I chose to move a pace away, unsure where to be but knowing that by my teacher’s side was not the right place.

  The Paqo and this man stood nose to nose, interlocking gazes with an intensity that caused me to avert my eyes. Even so, I could feel the air between them expanding and crackling, as if the lightning god himself were about to strike the earth.

  The Paqo spoke first. “Villac Uma, it is good to see you.”

  This man was the Villac Uma, the head priest and highest sorcerer of the entire empire? He rivaled the emperor himself in power! The holiest of temples were his to command, as well as the Sun Maidens and all other shaman priests. At his word, a hundred llamas would be sacrificed, the emperor would fast for ten days, a statue of pure gold would be erected in honor of any of the deities. The very flow of the rivers was determined by this man and the gods he called his equals.

  The Villac Uma nodded slowly. “Yes. It is good to see you as well, old friend.” His voice was like low thunder, deep and rumbling with strength. “I see you have brought your apprentice.”

  All eyes turned to me. Was this a time to speak or to remain silent? To bow my head or jut out my chin in false confidence? Sumac bobbed his head at the shamans and comfortably puffed his feathers. I wished I had his ease of spirit. I wanted to bury my face behind his solid body.

  “Yes,” the Paqo replied. He spoke with an air of firmness, as if to prove a point. “It is right and true for her to be here.”

  The others exchanged quiet looks. It was as I feared. My presence at the Gathering was causing a problem.

  The Villac Uma and the Paqo began speaking without words. The head priest posed a question. I could see it in his raised eyebrows. The Paqo replied in a manner that clearly pleased the Villac Uma. Both men suddenly smiled.

  The head priest announced for all to hear, “Welcome, Yachachisqa, Apprentice Girl. It is good that you are here.”

  Slowly, I made my way to the Villac Uma and dropped to my knees. “Pachis. I am honored.”

  Before I had the chance to bask in his acceptance, the Villac Uma spoke again to the Paqo. “The people are growing hungrier every day. The Sapa Inca is asking if it is time for a human sacrifice to appease the gods. We will ask the spirits tonight.”

  The Paqo nodded in agreement.

  The priestess spoke in a voice like a clear moving stream, “Inti moves across the sky. We must prepare for the night’s ceremonies.”

  “The last four will be here soon,” the Villac Uma said. Then he turned to the Paqo. “No one has claimed your favored spot, old friend. Settle in. We will see you at moonrise.”

  The Paqo nodded his agreement, and the five shamans moved away so quickly and quietly as to leave me wondering if they had been there at all.

  Without a word I stood, and the Paqo and I made our way into the heart of Wiñay Wayna to prepare ourselves.

  ***

  Feelings that are true sink deep into the heart, where they remain. The ceremony that evening would not go well. No one had told me, but I knew this to be so. I felt it in every beat of my heart.

  I knew the ceremony wouldn’t go well as the Paqo and I laid out our rush mats in his favored spot, one of the many small stone guesthouses covered with thatch. Outside, the creamy petals of orchids reflected the pale glow of twilight, and a friendly fountain gurgled. It was strange and pleasant to hear water. The Paqo explained that the orchids were fewer and many of the fountains had slowed or dried up altogether because of the drought. He was glad this one was still running. He hung his hummingbird weaving in the open doorway. We would only stay the one night, but it was important to give this place a sense of home and familiarity.

  I knew the ceremony wouldn’t go well as we walked through Wiñay Wayna to the Gathering. There were few people living their days and nights there. It was primarily a storage center for crops collected throughout the empire. It was also a holy place for washing and preparing, a last stop before reaching Sacred Sun City at Machu Picchu. The absence of other people added a strange sense of stillness.

  I knew the ceremony wouldn’t go well as the Paqo left me seated on a large boulder near several of the other shamans and walked up to join the Villac Uma in the center of the activities. I was feeling the mood of the world. The rains would not come, and the powerful shaman priests and priestesses seemed to know this even as they prepared themselves that evening. The spirits would deliver us the message of no rain right and true. Watch and you will see how they did so.

  One of
the shamans was the firekeeper. He stood by a mighty blaze that popped and crackled, telling him when to add more wood, where to place dried lichen, and how to keep the fire from growing too enormous to control. The blaze was bigger than any I had ever seen. It flared upward like a stream of hot orange waves trying to course their way to the sky world. I don’t know how the keeper stayed as close to the flames as he did, for the heat was almost unbearable from where I was sitting, but he watched and listened to the fire with his entire being, and the blaze responded to his every movement as if they were one.

  This ceremony tonight was in honor of Illapa, god of thunder and lightning. His body was made of stars, and he wore a cloak sewn from pure lightning. Illapa ruled in the sky with a club in one hand and a sling in the other. His sister sat nearby cradling a jug of water. When he chose to, Illapa would sling a stone at his sister’s jug. The shattering of the jug created thunder, and the water pouring forth was the rain. As the servant and messenger of Inti, Illapa was the proper god with whom to speak this night.

  “O Great Illapa, Flashing One, hear us!” the Villac Uma boomed suddenly.

  All became silent at the Villac Uma’s words, all except the fire, which crackled and spat more violently. My teacher slipped away from the head priest’s side and returned holding a long rope. Attached to the other end was a llama. The animal was blacker than the fiercest of rain clouds. It would be our messenger to the spirit world.

  As the Villac Uma took a tumi, a ceremonial knife, from his pouch, I noticed that the sacrifice of a llama was different without an audience to impress. Movements were made without flourish, and the ten shaman priests and priestesses focused more on one another and the quiet world of the inside than on the outside appearance of the ceremony. I was witnessing a moment of true power and communication with Beyond.