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chapter 15
It was mid afternoon when I returned from our field trip and found a letter from MacClayne awaiting me. I quickly opened it and sat down in the dining room to read it. In it MacClayne confirmed that he'd be coming to visit me in Uruapan this autumn and, in his tongue-in-cheek way, he congratulated me on having learned the location of that long-sought-for grail city. He wrote, in part:
You've done well in identifying the supposed nothingness of that dusty, desert town as the citadel where we shall find the blessed chalice. As true chevaliers of the holy whatever, we shall endure all perils that may befall us on the road to that nether region which would-be visitors are warned never to approach.
Then, in a more serious tone, he expressed a promise to stay sober for the duration of our journey--That was a welcome assurance. MacClayne was in fact known to have something of a drinking problem--I guess it could be called a problem since he occasionally had to explain it to a judge. Although I'd avoided mentioning it in my letters to him, it had been bothering me that traveling with a drinker could be a serious problem. On reading those lines, I let out a deep sigh of relief.
I was about to read the letter again when it occurred to me that I'd better check on Cuauhtémoc. As I hadn't felt it practical to take him with me this morning, I'd left him in my room with the door open so he could go out in the courtyard as he pleased. There shouldn't have been much risk as he'd been used to fending for himself like this before he'd become my responsibility. Nevertheless, since he was still convalescent, I did feel some concern about leaving him alone until he fully recovered.
So I passed through the courtyard and to our room, where I called out his name as I entered. There was a faint sound, though at first I saw nothing.
"Cuauhtémoc," I called out again.
The bird appeared out of a corner and began stumbling his way towards me with drooping wings partially extended to keep his balance. But he'd scarcely covered a meter when he fell on his beak, and struggled unsuccessfully to get back on his feet.
For a moment or two, I just stood there, watching in horror. My poor bird! He'd had a relapse! I rushed forward and took him up in my arms. Then, pausing only to retrieve his small blanket and wrap it around him, I rushed out into the street and down to the corner where I hailed a taxi.
Fortunately, I was able to catch one immediately. It was the second time since my arrival in Uruapan that I'd ridden in a taxi. This was not a luxury I could easily afford. It was only for emergencies like this that I was willing to spend.
The bird hiccuped as we sped towards doña Rosario's shop, I desperately hoped Chayo would be in. She'd said she was going back to work to finish up the afternoon after our field trip, but I wasn't sure. And to think that while I'd been out at the malpaís, my poor bird had been suffering alone, nobody to attend him. I felt sick with guilt at my neglect.
"He's had a relapse!" I gasped as I came rushing in the door of the shop.
Chayo dropped what she was doing and took the hiccuping bird in her arms. Then she sniffed his breath, and her look of concern gave way to one of suspicion. Finally. "Está pedo," she announced.
"¿Qué?"
"This bird is shitfaced drunk."
"Drunk? My bird, drunk?"
The patient raised his head and attempted to crow, hiccuped instead, and nearly passed out.
"How could that happen?" I said.
"He obviously got into it somewhere."
"Someone--I bet it was don Tomás," I said. "He's a real jerk, the kind of guy who'd do something like this to a poor defenseless animal in convalescence."
"Olaf, be careful before you go around making unfounded accusations."
"So what do you think?"
"That we don't know yet," said Chayo. "It's even possible that the bird drank something on his own."
"On his own? Are you suggesting that my poor bird went out to some bar and boozed it up? You're going to tell me he's one of those shiftless characters who spends his last peso on alcohol?"
"Stop shouting, Olaf."
"I'm not shouting!" Then I glanced around and saw doña Rosario and Socorro standing there.
"What happened?" asked doña Rosario.
"Something happened to Cuauhtémoc. We're trying to figure it out," Chayo said. Then, pulling up a chair and putting her arm around my shoulder, she suggested that I sit down.
I said, "I can't imagine how my bird could've had access to alcohol. Somebody obviously did this to him."
"Olaf," said Chayo. "I'll go with you and we'll talk with don Pablo and doña Josefina. Maybe they would have some idea."
Chayo got ready to go, and we walked back to the boardinghouse together. She carried Cuauhtémoc in her arms, and he now seemed to be recovering.
We arrived as people were filing into the dining room for dinner. Doña Josefina invited Chayo to dine with the rest of us, and after the meal, we brought up the subject. Chayo gave a short introduction, and then I told how I'd come home that afternoon and found my bird staggering and hiccuping, slurring his crows.
I expected a very solemn response, but I'd hardly finished my account when everyone at the table started laughing.
"You didn't know?" Carlos said.
"Know what?" I said.
Everyone laughed again.
Don Pablo finally spoke up and explained, "Do you remember how Palomo and Morito always used to have a tequila bottle with them?"
"Of course I do," I replied.
"Did you think the bird used to just sit there on his perch, quietly watching them while they boozed it up?"
"Huh?"
"When they drank, the bird drank with them."
"You mean--?"
"Your bird has a fondness for alcohol."
That must've gone on very openly, but somehow I had never taken any notice. It was the kind of thing you don't pay much attention to until you find yourself in a relationship.
But it wasn't the poor bird's fault.
Society had done this to him. Human society, for all its façade of culture and civilization, was horribly twisted and brutal to its members. In the U.S. they drafted guys of my generation into the Army and shipped them off to Vietnam to kill or be killed; many came home addicted to cigarettes, booze or even drugs.
In México they did it to chickens.
"Cuauhtémoc," I said, holding him gently in my arms and hugging him, "I don't want you to ever fight or drink again."
As I sat in my room that evening, distressed over my bird's alcoholism, I tried to think of more pleasant things, such as the field work that lay ahead. Then another matter came to mind--the expense of paying a lab to run the carbon 14 tests. I had no idea of how much it would cost, but I guessed it would be more than I could afford.
The obvious solution was to apply for a grant. That was something I'd never done before, and my first thought was to write my school and ask for help and advice
Unfortunately, my alma mater was not likely to be helpful. From correspondence with former classmates, I knew that Dr. Hans Knudsen had become department chairman during the summer. Dr. Knudsen was my former thesis advisor, the one who'd taken over my project and ghostwritten my paper. According to a recent letter, word of that had gotten out and become a gossip item among the alumni who were wondering if my degree were fraudulent. It was an embarrassment to the professor's credibility and so he and the entire department faculty were likely to consider me and my career in geology a liability.
Given this situation, I felt I'd be wise to forget the school and do this on my own. But how did one go about applying for a grant? I didn't even know the name and address of a foundation that funded scientific projects. Back in Minnesota I could've gotten such information in the town library, but here in the mountains of southwestern México it wouldn't be that easy. I began to see where the process of obtaining a grant could consume huge amounts of my time--time that I'd rather spend on the project itself. Worst of all, a foundation would ask where I got my degree.
Why even bother trying to finance my research project right now? I could postpone the carbon 14 tests till I was back in the U.S. For now, I'd just collect the samples and do other field work--there was certainly enough to do. Meanwhile, I could go ahead and publicize the discovery. I'd send a query letter to the Southern California Geological Society. I'd tell them I was working on an article which I'd have ready in a month or so. Then I remembered something: Dr. Knudsen was on the editorial board!
Another thought came to mind. Over the years, my hometown newspaper in Minnesota had published several of my Op/Ed stories, including those about my experiences as an activist, opposing the war in Vietnam. Why not give them the story? I could write it for their science column. There was even a chance that from there it might be picked up by other newspapers.
I took out my notebook, pulled my chair up to the table that I used as a desk. I'd barely sat down with pen in hand when I heard a quick flutter of wings. It was Cuauhtémoc, attempting to hop up. He still hadn't recovered from his injuries to the point where he could make it on his own.
I lifted him up in my arms and set him on the backrest of an extra chair which I'd brought into the room that afternoon to serve as his perch. He settled down and watched me as I wrote.
The legend of the Thirsty Mountain is part of the folklore of a remote town in southwestern México. Some revered it as the story of a religious miracle, and skeptics have dismissed it as a farfetched tale of the supernatural. Recently it became the key to resolving an historical mystery that has puzzled scientists.
The event dates from the 16th century, shortly after the arrival of the Spaniards. . . .
I spent the rest of the evening drafting it out. I wrote it, rewrote it, shortened it and then expanded it. By the time I'd finished, it was a late hour for both myself and my bird who was still perched at my side.
"Bedtime," I announced.
The bird opened a sleepy eye. He was already dozing off.
I put him to bed in his box, tucked his small blanket around him, and then went out to brush my teeth. I was really quite pleased with what I'd written and thought of various magazines I might send it to.
Nevertheless, one thing bothered me. An editor might not be impressed to hear that the legend came from a children's storybook. I stood there at the pila, listening to the chirping of crickets, squeezing toothpaste out of the tube, and thinking about that. Well, so what? That's basically what legends were--children's stories. Nevertheless, there just might be some other place where it got recorded. Maybe don Javier could help me on that. I'd be going to his place in the morning for my lesson.
But then I suddenly recalled having been told that when you write on a scientific subject, the editor of any respectable publication will ask what your qualifications are. I wondered if that was true, but it might be, and so there I was back to my original problem of a questionable academic degree, perhaps unable to even publish an article about our discovery.
I fumbled around, looking for the cap to my toothpaste. Even that was a major challenge at this moment, but at last I found it and stumbled back to my room.
Despite my weariness, I tossed and turned for a long time before finally getting to sleep, and, when at last I did, I found myself in one of those confused dreams that seemed to have no logical interpretation. It ended with the sound of a rooster crowing. I sat up in bed, and heard the crowing again. It came from right beside me.
"Cuauhtémoc!" I said. "It was you!"
Sunlight was streaming in through the cracks around the door and Cuauhtémoc stood there waiting for me to let him out into the courtyard. He strutted about, enjoying life. His injured wing still hung lower than his good one, but it was noticeably better than the day before. Soon he might be flying again.
Watching him move about filled me with optimism. I shaved and got ready to go to don Javier's place. I'd talked to my tutor on a previous occasion about the possibility of finding some record of the event that produced the malpaís. That was, of course, before I'd learned of the legend of the thirsty mountain. He'd told me that there wasn't any. "Ninguno. No hay ninguno."
So this morning I expected him to show considerable surprise when I announced that Chayo and I had at last found an eyewitness account.
"You have?" he said in a good humored tone that indicated some curiosity. "Did you bring it with you?"
I showed him the book, and he took it in his hands and gazed at the title Leyendas de Michoacán.
"Yes, I have a copy myself. It's a very fine collection of local legends," he said. "But I don't remember anything about volcanoes or lava flows in it."
"It's in the legend of the Thirsty Mountain," I said, and briefly explained what reportedly happened.
"It's been some time since I read it. Let me look at it," he said, and put on his reading glasses.
For a long while, don Javier studied the account. Cuauhtémoc, perched on the backrest of the chair next to me, seemed as full of anticipation as I was.
"A very interesting interpretation you have here," don Javier said at last. "But I see no volcano in this story."
I nodded slowly. "Yes, it does sound like a strange omission," I said. "But maybe it isn't. The story is about the lava flow which drank the river, and that's what the Indian storyteller was focussing on. The was no water for the fields or even for the animals. That's what got their attention."
"Your explanation of how the volcano is missing from the story is a persuasive one" said don Javier. But you've just inadvertently brought up a problem with your theory, that the storyteller mentioned that there was no water for the fields.
"I remember the Paricutín eruption," he continued. "The lava invaded and destroyed villages. But far worse than the lava was the ash, the cinders and even the rocks which came raining down from the sky, covering fields with thick layers of burning sand and dust which destroyed crops. It was a widespread, regional catastrophe, far more than not having water for the fields, but no such thing is mentioned in the legend."
I hadn't thought of that. Don Javier had once witnessed an eruption, whereas I never had. I was a geologist, but without much in the way of actual experience.
"When crops are destroyed," he pointed out, "farmers no longer need water for them."
"Sometimes there are fissure eruptions, lava flows without cinders or even ash," I said.
"You think that's what happened here?"
I shrugged my shoulders. "If this story isn't about a moving lava flow, then what else could it be?"
"There are many other possible explanations," he said. "The thirsty mountain that grew like a vine towards water could be a symbolic metaphor for a good many things. Perhaps you've heard of archetypes, a theory developed by Carl Jung?"
"Well I have, but--" I wasn't sure what to say. I was quite surprised that he wasn't going along with my hypothesis. The old teacher waited patiently while I reassembled my thoughts. Perhaps to console me, he said, "I'm impressed with your thoughts about this, and I'm not saying you're wrong. I'm only suggesting that you consider other possibilities."
There was a silence. I sat there looking at Cuauhtémoc. Don Javier also looked at the bird. "A remarkable creature," he said. "There are times when I almost get the feeling that he knows what we're saying. I've never seen a rooster like him."
The bird clucked, as he often did when he became the topic of conversation.
We exchanged a few comments about the bird. Then another thought occurred to me about the legend.
"It is strange that the account says nothing of any cinder cone or rain of hot ash," I said. "Half the story seems to be missing. Maybe there was more to it that somehow got omitted. I do believe this is a description of a slowly moving lava flow. The legend tells us that the mountain made the river disappear--that's not something that a storyteller would be likely to invent. I believe such a thing could only come from people who'd seen lava flow into a river."
The teacher nodded. "You have a point there."
"Moreover," I added. "There is a lava flow out there, approximately where the legend puts the thirsty mountain. There's even the dating which seems to match--the legend indicates that it happened shortly after the Spanish conquest, and I'd estimate the malpaís to be roughly that old."
The old teacher chuckled. "You're not about to give up. I'm sure don Diego Gonzalez would've been pleased to meet you, I wish I could've introduced you to him."
"The author of this book? You knew him?"
"Years ago. He's been gone for some time now."
"Passed away?"
"Yes. He was old when I was young. He used to teach school at Cherán."
"That's an Indian village, isn't it. Do you think that's where he heard this legend? From a Tarascan storyteller?"
"You're thinking of going there to look for a storyteller?"
"Yes."
Don Javier shook his head. "This book was written fifty years ago. Don't expect to find him."
"Perhaps his grandson's there."
"Could be." The old teacher sighed. "But don Diego lived and taught in several of the Tarascan villages. I couldn't name all of them. And I'm not sure he got his material directly from Indian storytellers."
"No?"
"Most of these stories, perhaps all of them, seem to have been taken from older books and retold," he said. "A couple are from the Chronicles of Michoacán. And I'd be willing to bet the Thirsty Mountain legend also came from an older account."
"Where could I find it?"
Don Javier got up, went to his library and returned shortly with an old leather-bound volume. The title on the opening page was nearly a paragraph long. He leafed through the book and said, "It's probably not in this one, but it could be in some other. Several of the early Spanish friars wrote letters, memoirs and histories. It might be that one of them recorded the legend, and, if don Diego could find it, perhaps we can."
After that I visited the malpaís almost every day. Some time in the future I hoped to run carbon 14 tests, so I looked for places where I might dig under the edge of the flow and find charcoal samples from the time of the eruption. If I were lucky I might even find some exposed in outcroppings.
At the same time I began mapping out the boundaries of the flow and set out to trace it back its source, which was most likely one of the half dozen volcanoes which could be seen from Uruapan. Altogether this was an area of about fifty square kilometers, making it possible that the lava flow in the Stone Gardens which overlay the springs at the source of the Río Cupatitzio might also be part of that same malpaís.
I didn't know how much of the lava in this area belonged to the Thirsty Mountain Flow, as I'd come to call it. That was part of what I had to find out. But it was clear that I had a lot of area to cover, therefore a lot of footwork ahead of me.
Whenever she could, Chayo took time off to accompany me, but mostly I went out alone. On completing my efforts for the day, I'd return home to see how Cuauhtémoc was doing. He was recovering wonderfully, but there was that ongoing problem of his temperance.
"Just don't give him anything to drink," doña Josefina advised me. "It's that simple."
Yes, it really should have been that simple. After all, the bird had no money of his own, so he couldn't go to a store and buy himself a bottle whenever he felt like it. Nevertheless, it happened again only a week after his first binge. On this latter occasion I'd been home all day when I suddenly noticed that my poor bird was hiccuping.
How could this have happened? He'd been out of my sight for only a few minutes.
A brief visit to the dining hall supplied the likely answer. Someone had left a half-empty glass of wine on the table. I didn't realize that the injured bird was able to fly up on the table, but he had apparently found a way.
After that, I made a practice of keeping an eye on the dining hall to make sure there weren't any unfinished drinks lying around whenever I let the bird out of my room. Even so, he proved himself adept at finding booze in all sorts of nooks and crannies where I would never have thought to look. My bird had a beak for booze. I'd often heard that alcoholics were extremely resourceful, and that was proving true of my chicken.
"¿Qué hago?" I asked Chayo.
She sighed deeply. "It is easier to raise the dead than to keep the living sober."
"That's not very helpful," I said.
"Some people drink because they're bored," she suggested. "Maybe the poor bird gets tired of being left home while you do your geology. Why don't take him with you?"
"On my field trips to the malpaís?"
"You've been taking him everywhere else you go, including your lessons with don Javier."
"That's different," I objected. "Out in the field I'd have to spend all my time looking after him."
"At least you could give him a chance," she said.
So the next day I took Cuauhtémoc with. We caught a bus out to the malpaís where we got off. There at the edge of the lava flow I set him on the ground to see what he'd do.
For a few moments he stood there looking at me, then clucked as though to say, "Let's get started."
I set out, walking along the edge of the lava flow, and keeping more of an eye on Cuauhtémoc than on the rocks. He kept up with me well enough and had no difficulty slipping through the thick grass and brush. When the going was rough, he was usually ahead of me.
Whenever I paused to look more closely at some feature of the lava flow, the bird would also give it a look, and if I stayed a while, he'd find things for himself to do. He'd scratch and dig in the earth, or pick seeds off plants. And when I was ready to move on, he'd also be ready to move on.
It wasn't long before I saw that Cuauhtémoc was a competent field-bird who needed no special looking after. The fresh air and exercise were what he needed, and, as the days went by, his health improved rapidly. He was soon able to use his wings to get over large boulders and other obstacles of the rugged terrain.
He was a good companion, and the value of having him along with me in the field became clear one afternoon when I was about to reach my hand down to pick up a rock. Cuauhtémoc saw the danger, dove in and pulled out a scorpion.
The scorpions of this region were notoriously poisonous and everybody had warned me about them. When I related the event at dinner that evening, I was warned again. Don Pablo had once been stung, and it had been extremely painful.
Carlos had also survived a bad sting, but only because of medical attention.
"That's true," said doña Josefina, and told of a neighbor who'd died after being stung. "Not everyone survives. You were fortunate to have Cuauhtémoc with you."
"A remarkable bird," said don Pablo, and everyone voiced wholehearted agreement. Cuauhtémoc, who was perched on the backrest of the chair next to me, crowed loudly, much to the delight of everyone, and they applauded enthusiastically.
The bird responded to the applause with more crowing. Modesty was obviously not one of his virtues, but that was okay. He had every right to crow, and I was proud of him.
continued in Chapter 16
You've done well in identifying the supposed nothingness of that dusty, desert town as the citadel where we shall find the blessed chalice. As true chevaliers of the holy whatever, we shall endure all perils that may befall us on the road to that nether region which would-be visitors are warned never to approach.
Then, in a more serious tone, he expressed a promise to stay sober for the duration of our journey--That was a welcome assurance. MacClayne was in fact known to have something of a drinking problem--I guess it could be called a problem since he occasionally had to explain it to a judge. Although I'd avoided mentioning it in my letters to him, it had been bothering me that traveling with a drinker could be a serious problem. On reading those lines, I let out a deep sigh of relief.
I was about to read the letter again when it occurred to me that I'd better check on Cuauhtémoc. As I hadn't felt it practical to take him with me this morning, I'd left him in my room with the door open so he could go out in the courtyard as he pleased. There shouldn't have been much risk as he'd been used to fending for himself like this before he'd become my responsibility. Nevertheless, since he was still convalescent, I did feel some concern about leaving him alone until he fully recovered.
So I passed through the courtyard and to our room, where I called out his name as I entered. There was a faint sound, though at first I saw nothing.
"Cuauhtémoc," I called out again.
The bird appeared out of a corner and began stumbling his way towards me with drooping wings partially extended to keep his balance. But he'd scarcely covered a meter when he fell on his beak, and struggled unsuccessfully to get back on his feet.
For a moment or two, I just stood there, watching in horror. My poor bird! He'd had a relapse! I rushed forward and took him up in my arms. Then, pausing only to retrieve his small blanket and wrap it around him, I rushed out into the street and down to the corner where I hailed a taxi.
Fortunately, I was able to catch one immediately. It was the second time since my arrival in Uruapan that I'd ridden in a taxi. This was not a luxury I could easily afford. It was only for emergencies like this that I was willing to spend.
The bird hiccuped as we sped towards doña Rosario's shop, I desperately hoped Chayo would be in. She'd said she was going back to work to finish up the afternoon after our field trip, but I wasn't sure. And to think that while I'd been out at the malpaís, my poor bird had been suffering alone, nobody to attend him. I felt sick with guilt at my neglect.
"He's had a relapse!" I gasped as I came rushing in the door of the shop.
Chayo dropped what she was doing and took the hiccuping bird in her arms. Then she sniffed his breath, and her look of concern gave way to one of suspicion. Finally. "Está pedo," she announced.
"¿Qué?"
"This bird is shitfaced drunk."
"Drunk? My bird, drunk?"
The patient raised his head and attempted to crow, hiccuped instead, and nearly passed out.
"How could that happen?" I said.
"He obviously got into it somewhere."
"Someone--I bet it was don Tomás," I said. "He's a real jerk, the kind of guy who'd do something like this to a poor defenseless animal in convalescence."
"Olaf, be careful before you go around making unfounded accusations."
"So what do you think?"
"That we don't know yet," said Chayo. "It's even possible that the bird drank something on his own."
"On his own? Are you suggesting that my poor bird went out to some bar and boozed it up? You're going to tell me he's one of those shiftless characters who spends his last peso on alcohol?"
"Stop shouting, Olaf."
"I'm not shouting!" Then I glanced around and saw doña Rosario and Socorro standing there.
"What happened?" asked doña Rosario.
"Something happened to Cuauhtémoc. We're trying to figure it out," Chayo said. Then, pulling up a chair and putting her arm around my shoulder, she suggested that I sit down.
I said, "I can't imagine how my bird could've had access to alcohol. Somebody obviously did this to him."
"Olaf," said Chayo. "I'll go with you and we'll talk with don Pablo and doña Josefina. Maybe they would have some idea."
Chayo got ready to go, and we walked back to the boardinghouse together. She carried Cuauhtémoc in her arms, and he now seemed to be recovering.
We arrived as people were filing into the dining room for dinner. Doña Josefina invited Chayo to dine with the rest of us, and after the meal, we brought up the subject. Chayo gave a short introduction, and then I told how I'd come home that afternoon and found my bird staggering and hiccuping, slurring his crows.
I expected a very solemn response, but I'd hardly finished my account when everyone at the table started laughing.
"You didn't know?" Carlos said.
"Know what?" I said.
Everyone laughed again.
Don Pablo finally spoke up and explained, "Do you remember how Palomo and Morito always used to have a tequila bottle with them?"
"Of course I do," I replied.
"Did you think the bird used to just sit there on his perch, quietly watching them while they boozed it up?"
"Huh?"
"When they drank, the bird drank with them."
"You mean--?"
"Your bird has a fondness for alcohol."
That must've gone on very openly, but somehow I had never taken any notice. It was the kind of thing you don't pay much attention to until you find yourself in a relationship.
But it wasn't the poor bird's fault.
Society had done this to him. Human society, for all its façade of culture and civilization, was horribly twisted and brutal to its members. In the U.S. they drafted guys of my generation into the Army and shipped them off to Vietnam to kill or be killed; many came home addicted to cigarettes, booze or even drugs.
In México they did it to chickens.
"Cuauhtémoc," I said, holding him gently in my arms and hugging him, "I don't want you to ever fight or drink again."
As I sat in my room that evening, distressed over my bird's alcoholism, I tried to think of more pleasant things, such as the field work that lay ahead. Then another matter came to mind--the expense of paying a lab to run the carbon 14 tests. I had no idea of how much it would cost, but I guessed it would be more than I could afford.
The obvious solution was to apply for a grant. That was something I'd never done before, and my first thought was to write my school and ask for help and advice
Unfortunately, my alma mater was not likely to be helpful. From correspondence with former classmates, I knew that Dr. Hans Knudsen had become department chairman during the summer. Dr. Knudsen was my former thesis advisor, the one who'd taken over my project and ghostwritten my paper. According to a recent letter, word of that had gotten out and become a gossip item among the alumni who were wondering if my degree were fraudulent. It was an embarrassment to the professor's credibility and so he and the entire department faculty were likely to consider me and my career in geology a liability.
Given this situation, I felt I'd be wise to forget the school and do this on my own. But how did one go about applying for a grant? I didn't even know the name and address of a foundation that funded scientific projects. Back in Minnesota I could've gotten such information in the town library, but here in the mountains of southwestern México it wouldn't be that easy. I began to see where the process of obtaining a grant could consume huge amounts of my time--time that I'd rather spend on the project itself. Worst of all, a foundation would ask where I got my degree.
Why even bother trying to finance my research project right now? I could postpone the carbon 14 tests till I was back in the U.S. For now, I'd just collect the samples and do other field work--there was certainly enough to do. Meanwhile, I could go ahead and publicize the discovery. I'd send a query letter to the Southern California Geological Society. I'd tell them I was working on an article which I'd have ready in a month or so. Then I remembered something: Dr. Knudsen was on the editorial board!
Another thought came to mind. Over the years, my hometown newspaper in Minnesota had published several of my Op/Ed stories, including those about my experiences as an activist, opposing the war in Vietnam. Why not give them the story? I could write it for their science column. There was even a chance that from there it might be picked up by other newspapers.
I took out my notebook, pulled my chair up to the table that I used as a desk. I'd barely sat down with pen in hand when I heard a quick flutter of wings. It was Cuauhtémoc, attempting to hop up. He still hadn't recovered from his injuries to the point where he could make it on his own.
I lifted him up in my arms and set him on the backrest of an extra chair which I'd brought into the room that afternoon to serve as his perch. He settled down and watched me as I wrote.
The legend of the Thirsty Mountain is part of the folklore of a remote town in southwestern México. Some revered it as the story of a religious miracle, and skeptics have dismissed it as a farfetched tale of the supernatural. Recently it became the key to resolving an historical mystery that has puzzled scientists.
The event dates from the 16th century, shortly after the arrival of the Spaniards. . . .
I spent the rest of the evening drafting it out. I wrote it, rewrote it, shortened it and then expanded it. By the time I'd finished, it was a late hour for both myself and my bird who was still perched at my side.
"Bedtime," I announced.
The bird opened a sleepy eye. He was already dozing off.
I put him to bed in his box, tucked his small blanket around him, and then went out to brush my teeth. I was really quite pleased with what I'd written and thought of various magazines I might send it to.
Nevertheless, one thing bothered me. An editor might not be impressed to hear that the legend came from a children's storybook. I stood there at the pila, listening to the chirping of crickets, squeezing toothpaste out of the tube, and thinking about that. Well, so what? That's basically what legends were--children's stories. Nevertheless, there just might be some other place where it got recorded. Maybe don Javier could help me on that. I'd be going to his place in the morning for my lesson.
But then I suddenly recalled having been told that when you write on a scientific subject, the editor of any respectable publication will ask what your qualifications are. I wondered if that was true, but it might be, and so there I was back to my original problem of a questionable academic degree, perhaps unable to even publish an article about our discovery.
I fumbled around, looking for the cap to my toothpaste. Even that was a major challenge at this moment, but at last I found it and stumbled back to my room.
Despite my weariness, I tossed and turned for a long time before finally getting to sleep, and, when at last I did, I found myself in one of those confused dreams that seemed to have no logical interpretation. It ended with the sound of a rooster crowing. I sat up in bed, and heard the crowing again. It came from right beside me.
"Cuauhtémoc!" I said. "It was you!"
Sunlight was streaming in through the cracks around the door and Cuauhtémoc stood there waiting for me to let him out into the courtyard. He strutted about, enjoying life. His injured wing still hung lower than his good one, but it was noticeably better than the day before. Soon he might be flying again.
Watching him move about filled me with optimism. I shaved and got ready to go to don Javier's place. I'd talked to my tutor on a previous occasion about the possibility of finding some record of the event that produced the malpaís. That was, of course, before I'd learned of the legend of the thirsty mountain. He'd told me that there wasn't any. "Ninguno. No hay ninguno."
So this morning I expected him to show considerable surprise when I announced that Chayo and I had at last found an eyewitness account.
"You have?" he said in a good humored tone that indicated some curiosity. "Did you bring it with you?"
I showed him the book, and he took it in his hands and gazed at the title Leyendas de Michoacán.
"Yes, I have a copy myself. It's a very fine collection of local legends," he said. "But I don't remember anything about volcanoes or lava flows in it."
"It's in the legend of the Thirsty Mountain," I said, and briefly explained what reportedly happened.
"It's been some time since I read it. Let me look at it," he said, and put on his reading glasses.
For a long while, don Javier studied the account. Cuauhtémoc, perched on the backrest of the chair next to me, seemed as full of anticipation as I was.
"A very interesting interpretation you have here," don Javier said at last. "But I see no volcano in this story."
I nodded slowly. "Yes, it does sound like a strange omission," I said. "But maybe it isn't. The story is about the lava flow which drank the river, and that's what the Indian storyteller was focussing on. The was no water for the fields or even for the animals. That's what got their attention."
"Your explanation of how the volcano is missing from the story is a persuasive one" said don Javier. But you've just inadvertently brought up a problem with your theory, that the storyteller mentioned that there was no water for the fields.
"I remember the Paricutín eruption," he continued. "The lava invaded and destroyed villages. But far worse than the lava was the ash, the cinders and even the rocks which came raining down from the sky, covering fields with thick layers of burning sand and dust which destroyed crops. It was a widespread, regional catastrophe, far more than not having water for the fields, but no such thing is mentioned in the legend."
I hadn't thought of that. Don Javier had once witnessed an eruption, whereas I never had. I was a geologist, but without much in the way of actual experience.
"When crops are destroyed," he pointed out, "farmers no longer need water for them."
"Sometimes there are fissure eruptions, lava flows without cinders or even ash," I said.
"You think that's what happened here?"
I shrugged my shoulders. "If this story isn't about a moving lava flow, then what else could it be?"
"There are many other possible explanations," he said. "The thirsty mountain that grew like a vine towards water could be a symbolic metaphor for a good many things. Perhaps you've heard of archetypes, a theory developed by Carl Jung?"
"Well I have, but--" I wasn't sure what to say. I was quite surprised that he wasn't going along with my hypothesis. The old teacher waited patiently while I reassembled my thoughts. Perhaps to console me, he said, "I'm impressed with your thoughts about this, and I'm not saying you're wrong. I'm only suggesting that you consider other possibilities."
There was a silence. I sat there looking at Cuauhtémoc. Don Javier also looked at the bird. "A remarkable creature," he said. "There are times when I almost get the feeling that he knows what we're saying. I've never seen a rooster like him."
The bird clucked, as he often did when he became the topic of conversation.
We exchanged a few comments about the bird. Then another thought occurred to me about the legend.
"It is strange that the account says nothing of any cinder cone or rain of hot ash," I said. "Half the story seems to be missing. Maybe there was more to it that somehow got omitted. I do believe this is a description of a slowly moving lava flow. The legend tells us that the mountain made the river disappear--that's not something that a storyteller would be likely to invent. I believe such a thing could only come from people who'd seen lava flow into a river."
The teacher nodded. "You have a point there."
"Moreover," I added. "There is a lava flow out there, approximately where the legend puts the thirsty mountain. There's even the dating which seems to match--the legend indicates that it happened shortly after the Spanish conquest, and I'd estimate the malpaís to be roughly that old."
The old teacher chuckled. "You're not about to give up. I'm sure don Diego Gonzalez would've been pleased to meet you, I wish I could've introduced you to him."
"The author of this book? You knew him?"
"Years ago. He's been gone for some time now."
"Passed away?"
"Yes. He was old when I was young. He used to teach school at Cherán."
"That's an Indian village, isn't it. Do you think that's where he heard this legend? From a Tarascan storyteller?"
"You're thinking of going there to look for a storyteller?"
"Yes."
Don Javier shook his head. "This book was written fifty years ago. Don't expect to find him."
"Perhaps his grandson's there."
"Could be." The old teacher sighed. "But don Diego lived and taught in several of the Tarascan villages. I couldn't name all of them. And I'm not sure he got his material directly from Indian storytellers."
"No?"
"Most of these stories, perhaps all of them, seem to have been taken from older books and retold," he said. "A couple are from the Chronicles of Michoacán. And I'd be willing to bet the Thirsty Mountain legend also came from an older account."
"Where could I find it?"
Don Javier got up, went to his library and returned shortly with an old leather-bound volume. The title on the opening page was nearly a paragraph long. He leafed through the book and said, "It's probably not in this one, but it could be in some other. Several of the early Spanish friars wrote letters, memoirs and histories. It might be that one of them recorded the legend, and, if don Diego could find it, perhaps we can."
After that I visited the malpaís almost every day. Some time in the future I hoped to run carbon 14 tests, so I looked for places where I might dig under the edge of the flow and find charcoal samples from the time of the eruption. If I were lucky I might even find some exposed in outcroppings.
At the same time I began mapping out the boundaries of the flow and set out to trace it back its source, which was most likely one of the half dozen volcanoes which could be seen from Uruapan. Altogether this was an area of about fifty square kilometers, making it possible that the lava flow in the Stone Gardens which overlay the springs at the source of the Río Cupatitzio might also be part of that same malpaís.
I didn't know how much of the lava in this area belonged to the Thirsty Mountain Flow, as I'd come to call it. That was part of what I had to find out. But it was clear that I had a lot of area to cover, therefore a lot of footwork ahead of me.
Whenever she could, Chayo took time off to accompany me, but mostly I went out alone. On completing my efforts for the day, I'd return home to see how Cuauhtémoc was doing. He was recovering wonderfully, but there was that ongoing problem of his temperance.
"Just don't give him anything to drink," doña Josefina advised me. "It's that simple."
Yes, it really should have been that simple. After all, the bird had no money of his own, so he couldn't go to a store and buy himself a bottle whenever he felt like it. Nevertheless, it happened again only a week after his first binge. On this latter occasion I'd been home all day when I suddenly noticed that my poor bird was hiccuping.
How could this have happened? He'd been out of my sight for only a few minutes.
A brief visit to the dining hall supplied the likely answer. Someone had left a half-empty glass of wine on the table. I didn't realize that the injured bird was able to fly up on the table, but he had apparently found a way.
After that, I made a practice of keeping an eye on the dining hall to make sure there weren't any unfinished drinks lying around whenever I let the bird out of my room. Even so, he proved himself adept at finding booze in all sorts of nooks and crannies where I would never have thought to look. My bird had a beak for booze. I'd often heard that alcoholics were extremely resourceful, and that was proving true of my chicken.
"¿Qué hago?" I asked Chayo.
She sighed deeply. "It is easier to raise the dead than to keep the living sober."
"That's not very helpful," I said.
"Some people drink because they're bored," she suggested. "Maybe the poor bird gets tired of being left home while you do your geology. Why don't take him with you?"
"On my field trips to the malpaís?"
"You've been taking him everywhere else you go, including your lessons with don Javier."
"That's different," I objected. "Out in the field I'd have to spend all my time looking after him."
"At least you could give him a chance," she said.
So the next day I took Cuauhtémoc with. We caught a bus out to the malpaís where we got off. There at the edge of the lava flow I set him on the ground to see what he'd do.
For a few moments he stood there looking at me, then clucked as though to say, "Let's get started."
I set out, walking along the edge of the lava flow, and keeping more of an eye on Cuauhtémoc than on the rocks. He kept up with me well enough and had no difficulty slipping through the thick grass and brush. When the going was rough, he was usually ahead of me.
Whenever I paused to look more closely at some feature of the lava flow, the bird would also give it a look, and if I stayed a while, he'd find things for himself to do. He'd scratch and dig in the earth, or pick seeds off plants. And when I was ready to move on, he'd also be ready to move on.
It wasn't long before I saw that Cuauhtémoc was a competent field-bird who needed no special looking after. The fresh air and exercise were what he needed, and, as the days went by, his health improved rapidly. He was soon able to use his wings to get over large boulders and other obstacles of the rugged terrain.
He was a good companion, and the value of having him along with me in the field became clear one afternoon when I was about to reach my hand down to pick up a rock. Cuauhtémoc saw the danger, dove in and pulled out a scorpion.
The scorpions of this region were notoriously poisonous and everybody had warned me about them. When I related the event at dinner that evening, I was warned again. Don Pablo had once been stung, and it had been extremely painful.
Carlos had also survived a bad sting, but only because of medical attention.
"That's true," said doña Josefina, and told of a neighbor who'd died after being stung. "Not everyone survives. You were fortunate to have Cuauhtémoc with you."
"A remarkable bird," said don Pablo, and everyone voiced wholehearted agreement. Cuauhtémoc, who was perched on the backrest of the chair next to me, crowed loudly, much to the delight of everyone, and they applauded enthusiastically.
The bird responded to the applause with more crowing. Modesty was obviously not one of his virtues, but that was okay. He had every right to crow, and I was proud of him.
continued in Chapter 16
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