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chapter 17
If I had any dreams that night, they faded quickly from my mind as I awoke in the morning with a knock at my door. It was MacClayne, looking rested and ready for action. We'd both slept in; it was already mid morning. The world awaited us. Then I remembered that Chayo would be leaving the next day, but at least I'd get to see her again that evening before she left.
I rubbed my eyes and said to MacClayne, "What do you say we start off with coffee and some breakfast?" I was thinking of treating him at one of the more elegant cafés.
"How about that Chinese place?" he said.
"El Café Chino?"
"I'd like to see it."
I left Cuauhtémoc in my room, hoping the bird wouldn't mind, and set out with MacClayne.
The sky hung low and gray, but today that didn't bother MacClayne; his adventurous mood was infectious. We laughed and joked as we headed towards the plaza.
There's something about a dull, unimaginative hole-in-the-wall establishment like Café Chino that achieves personality through its total lack of personality. MacClayne was very impressed and conceded that it was everything he could've expected. We ordered coffee and exchanged accounts of legendary insipid eating places we'd known.
MacClayne recalled one on the east end of London, another in New York, and also one in the Falkland Islands. Being a world traveler, he'd been to some truly uninspiring places. He concluded by affirming that to find absolute banality, one must journey to the ends of the earth.
Our coffees arrived and we went on to review our plans for the next few days. The most important thing on our agenda was the excursion to Apatzingán, but we'd firmly decided during the months of our correspondence that one simply does not charge off to a fabled and forbidden city in a big hurry. This was to be like a Japanese tea ceremony, an experience where every move is made slowly and deliberately, and the actual drinking of the tea is almost incidental.
Our intentions were to spend the first few days touring Uruapan and its immediate environs. There was a lot that I wanted to show him in this ancient town of narrow streets and adobe houses, this land of volcanoes and lava flows, ranches and Indian villages. I'd put my lessons with don Javier on hold.
As we chatted I occasionally glanced at the backrest of the chair beside me. It felt empty without Cuauhtémoc perching there.
"The gunfight was in some nearby village, wasn't it?" MacClayne asked, apparently referring to something I had written to him in a letter.
"The gunfight?" I repeated, wondering which one he was talking about.
"The local OK Corral." He grinned.
"Oh, that." I grinned too, recalling that he'd written that he wanted to see the place. MacClayne was a fan of Western movies. "Yes, that was in Jucutacato, near the old ranch which had formerly belonged to Chayo's father. Some guy got his friends together and rode into town to settle a score with one of the villagers, and they shot it out, right there in the village square. A couple people were killed that day. The count depends on who you hear it from. Someone even told me it was around twenty, but that I doubt."
"Call it poetic license," said MacClayne.
I took a sip of my coffee. "Feuds have been going on here since time immemorial. Chayo told me they're part of the local tradition."
"Her father was shot, wasn't he. Was there any connection?"
"I don't think so, that OK Corral shootout was much earlier. When Chayo was little."
"But they eventually got the ranch away from him, didn't they?"
"That was a guy named Juan García," I said. "He's dead now, died a pretty bizarre death."
"He's the one who went crazy? Started seeing things, shot up the ranch house?"
"Yeah." I couldn't resist adding wryly, "Chayo got the credit for that."
"How?"
"Some people say she cast a spell on him."
"They do? You mean they think Chayo has supernatural powers?"
"It's just talk. You know how it is. The things people say." I shrugged my shoulders, took a sip of my coffee and glanced around the room, looking for some other topic. One of the few things I'd scrupulously avoided mentioning in my letters to MacClayne was anything to do with Chayo's apparent connection with paranormal stuff. That was because MacClayne was given to dismissing such things as superstition, and in the past had often heaped ridicule on any account of them. I hadn't intended to bring the topic up now either, it had just slipped out of my mouth. My big mouth.
MacClayne nodded pensively. "People do say and believe strange things, but at times it can leave you wondering. There was a woman back in Dundrennan, my home village. People said she had remarkable powers."
"What sort of powers?" I said. I was glad to have the subject of the paranormal shifted away from Chayo, and at the same time I was also curious to hear what MacClayne might have to say.
"I guess nowadays you'd call her an herbalist. She used to gather and sell herbs. And people also credited her with healing powers. There may've been some truth in it. Once when my brother was sick my parents called her and she came and laid her hands on him and he recovered. It may've been coincidence. I don't know."
It surprised me to hear him say anything so open-minded and sympathetic on that subject. But I knew that MacClayne could be argumentative. If I had suggested there was some reality to shamanism, he probably would've spent the next half hour debunking it.
"Are you getting hungry?" he said.
"Yes. We could have breakfast here. The food's not bad."
"What was that place you wrote about? You said it was built like something out of a Nordic myth."
"Antojitos."
"Yes, Antojitos. I remember now. Am I pronouncing it right?"
"You are."
"How about 'oor-wah-PAN'?" He incorrectly put the accent on the last syllable.
"It's 'oor-WAH-pan'," I corrected him. "Don't feel bad, I was here three days before I learned to say it right.
"I remember you writing about that." He tried it a couple times and eventually got it, though his Scottish accent made it charmingly unique. MacClayne spoke with a burr as rough as a Scottish thistle.
"You'd like to eat at Antojitos?" I said.
We set out for Antojitos, ambling down the arcade to the corner, crossing the street and pausing to look at the movie posters at a theater along the way, then we came to La Huatapera, the museum with the ancient, meter-thick adobe walls and stone fountain. It was open, and we took time to admire the displays of arts and crafts from centuries past.
"This is probably older than any building in the United States," I said. "And I think it was around the time they were building it that the Thirsty Mountain erupted."
"This is probably older than any building in the United States," I said. "And I think it was around the time they were building it that the Thirsty Mountain erupted."
"The Thirsty Mountain--that's the lava flow you've been studying, isn't it?"
"Yes, it's just down the road a couple of kilometers. We'll go there, maybe this afternoon."
"I'd like to see it," he said. "I think you were working on an article about it. Did you try sending it anywhere for publication?"
"I finished it. But I haven't sent it out yet."
"Wouldn't it be best to send it right away?" he said. "It sounds like a discovery that could be helpful to you in your geology career."
I bit my lip. "Before I try to publish I want to verify the original source of the legend," I said. I didn't tell him I was afraid that if it were published, Dr. Knudsen might hear about it and denounce me as a fraud. Although that possibility seemed remote, it nevertheless worried me to the extent that I hesitated to publish my find. I hadn't told MacClayne anything about the dubious nature of my degree, and I didn't care to go into it.
"Have you been able to find out any more about the source of the legend?"
"So far I've only seen it in a children's book."
"You don't think the author might have invented the story?"
"No. There are just too many precise details in it," I said. "He would've needed a background in geology to invent such a thing and describe it the way he did. Anyway, I'm hoping to find his original source."
"Where could he have gotten it?"
"Chayo has been helping me and she's looked for Indian storytellers who might know it, but so far without success. And we've also been hunting down various histories and memoirs from the 16th and 17th centuries. Most were written by Spanish friars. They're the most likely sources, but not easy to find. Most have been out of print for centuries."
"It sounds intriguing," MacClayne said. "I'm sure that while you're doing this search, even without finding it, you're learning a lot of the history of this region."
"I feel I am. I've even come across old references to Apatzingán. It was often called Cutzamala, a Náhuatl word meaning the same thing."
"Meaning the place of Apatzi. He's the god of death."
"Yes," I said. "Or at least that's how he's been classified. But to me that interpretation doesn't sound accurate, because the full translation of Apatzingán literally says it's the place where Apatzi was risen up."
"Risen up? From the dead, I presume?"
"That's the implication."
"So you don't think he was a grim reaper?"
"No, quite the opposite," I said. "Maybe more like a Tarascan version of Baldr."
No matter what topic we started out with, we soon wound up talking about Apatzingán.
We left the Huatapera and went to Antojitos, which was just around the corner. It was fairly empty; many of the stalls were closed and only a fraction of the usually bustling crowd was there, no doubt because of the unending inclement weather.
"So this is it?" MacClayne looked around admiringly, putting his hands on one of the massive wooden pillars. "You did not exaggerate. This would indeed have been worthy of Hrothgar and his warriors."
A whiff of cold mist hit us as we stood there; it took MacClayne back to nostalgic memories of the old country where it rained all the time. "There was a place like this not too far from Dundrennan, dating from the 12th century," he said.
"Do you like pozole?" I said, impatient to eat.
"What is it?"
"Soup, made of boiled pork and corn that looks like hominy."
MacClayne said he'd try some and we went to a stall where I ordered us each a bowl.
"How do you like it?" I asked him as we ate.
"Olaf, you are nothing less than a true connoisseur of gourmet delights, and when I become editor in chief of Diner's Abroad, I'll retain you at an excellent salary and send you forth to discover and report back the great culinary experiences of Latin America and the Orient as well."
It was MacClayne at his grandiloquent best. It was this kind of humor which made him a welcome guest in the places where he read his poetry.
"¿Su amigo es Norteamericano?" the lady vendor asked me. She knew me because I often came here with Chayo.
"Es de Escotia," I said.
"¿Yo?" MacClayne spoke up. "Sí, soy de Escotia."
"¿Le gustó el pozole?" she asked him.
"¡Muchísimo!" he assured her, scraping the last spoonful from his bowl with proverbial Scottish frugality.
Though MacClayne's Spanish was limited, I was repeatedly impressed at how well he handled what he did know.
As we got up to go, I glanced around for Cuauhtémoc, momentarily forgetting that he wasn't with me that morning.
Having started our tour of Uruapan on a very good note, we then set out for the Stone Gardens.
On the way we stopped at the boardinghouse to retrieve Cuauhtémoc. He greeted me with an unhappy squawk at having been locked in, and he'd also crapped in the middle of the floor rather than on the newspapers I'd laid out for the purpose. But I could clean that up later. The three of us set out for the Stone Gardens at the source of the Río Cupatitzio.
I had once found it hard to believe that a river of this size could simply flow out of the walls of this small canyon, and now MacClayne was as impressed as I had been.
We took our time, pausing often to admire the series of springs, the stonework, the fountains and bridges as we strolled up through the canyon. Eventually we came to the largest of the springs, which was at the head of the canyon. A large pond formed here. Wisps of fog hung low among the trees and over the water, enhancing the mystic quality.
"The Spring of Urð," I said.
"In all my travels I've seen nothing like this," he said. "I wouldn't have believed such a place even existed--except in the realm of myth and legend. But this region does indeed belong to the domain of folklore."
"For me it does," I said. "And, in a whimsical sense, it almost seems that the town itself was intentionally named after Urð."
We sat down on the ground, near the edge of the water.
"There are times when coincidence is almost too remarkable to be mere coincidence," he said. "How does the story of Urð go?"
"There's really no story about her," I said. "Only that she sits by the spring and carves out the runes which decide the lives men are to lead and the places their journeys will take them."
"Perhaps it was Urð who brought you to Uruapan," he said in his tongue-in-cheek way.
Chayo had suggested that too. Maybe I'd mentioned that to MacClayne in a letter--but I'd never written anything of how I'd gotten on the wrong bus and arrived in this town by accident. And I felt it best not to say it now either, lest he consider me less than competent. "Yes," I said, "it was Urð, and I shall always thank her for it."
These thoughts expressed, we lapsed into a comfortable silence, contemplating the pond, the trees, the grass and the black lava, each of us retreating into his own world of rock, water and mist.
Cuauhtémoc did likewise.
The sky was still overcast, and I'd been rubbing my arms all morning to keep warm. But, as I sat there gazing into the pond, I began to experience a pleasant misty feeling. Time stopped. It could have been for minutes, perhaps much longer.
Out of the corner of my eye, I saw a large white bird appear out of the mist, descend to the pool, and land in the middle. She swam to where Cuauhtémoc stood on the bank and touched beaks with him, exchanging a silent communication, bird to bird.
Then she turned and began swimming slowly away, but at the last instant turned and gazed briefly at MacClayne and me, giving a brief nod, as if of approval. Then she took to the air and disappeared into the mist.
"I remember a folk tale," MacClayne said, breaking the silence. "One they used to tell in the old country. Back in Scotland."
I continued to contemplate the faint ripples which still spread out across the surface of the pond, the only evidence of the white bird's fleeting visit.
"A man was crossing the mountains. There was hardly any trail for him to follow."
"Yes?" I said to let MacClayne know I was following his story. Cuauhtémoc had moved to a better position and turned his head to listen.
"This traveler was led by a white bird, to which he was attached by a long golden thread. His path took him along dangerous cliffs, through ravines and across rivers. There were storms. It rained and even snowed. Wild beasts stalked him, but he had no serious difficulty, due to his connection with the white bird."
MacClayne spoke slowly, gazing into the water. I hardly moved.
"But the golden thread broke. I don't remember how, but it did break. Maybe the traveler tarried too long in some place along the way. Anyway, he lost his connection with the white bird. Soon he was hopelessly lost and wandered in circles. This went on for many days and there appeared to be no chance of his coming out alive."
MacClayne paused.
I waited for him to go on, but he seemed to have come to the end of his story. The ripples in the pond were scarcely visible now. Then I realized he was looking at me.
"So when are we going?" he said.
"Going where?" I said.
"To Apatzingán. Isn't that what we've been planning?"
Suddenly I was shivering with cold and I began rubbing my arms and tried to stand up, but my legs had gone to sleep and a thousand needles were going through them.
MacClayne sat there, gazing into the pool again. Wasn't he cold?
I stopped rubbing my arms and legs just long enough to glance at my watch. One o'clock. It wasn't supposed to be one o'clock. An entire hour seemed unaccounted for, and I felt disoriented.
"When do you want to leave?" was all I could think to say.
"How about right now?"
His suggestion took me by surprise. I wanted to object that we'd made plans to first spend a week or so here in Uruapan. There were all those numerous places to visit. The malpaís, Volcán Paricutín, the village square of Jucutacato, and so much more. And besides, it was a bit late in the day to be starting out on something like this. But I was suddenly struck with an eerie feeling that we mustn't tarry and break the golden thread. That's what MacClayne seemed to have been saying, and maybe he was right.
"Then let's go." My own words felt strange to me, but perhaps it was the right thing to do. I vaguely wondered if MacClayne had also seen the white bird, or if I'd somehow invented it. Trying to sort this out only added to my confusion. I still felt slightly disoriented. I was shivering from the cold, but my legs began returning to normal and I stood up.
So did MacClayne, a bit stiffly but otherwise okay. Although he was fully twice my age, he didn't show it except for his gray hair. I wondered what color it had originally been.
Cuauhtémoc hopped onto my arm and we hurried back to the boardinghouse where I quickly tossed a few things in a small backpack. Since I wore sandals I didn't need socks; I took an extra T-shirt, a razor and toothbrush, a couple books to read, and Cuauhtémoc's small blanket. The spiral notebook in which I wrote my journal was nearly full, so I decided to leave it behind. Along the way I'd stop at a store to get another.
A minute later MacClayne emerged from his room with a small shoulder bag.
"You're taking the rooster with us?" he asked when he saw the bird on my arm.
"He goes everywhere with me."
Cuauhtémoc looked at MacClayne and crowed, as if to say, "Damn right I'm going with you guys!"
MacClayne eyed us both rather strangely for a moment, then said, "Well, let's get on the road."
"One other thing," I said. "I'd like to stop by and let Chayo know that we're leaving for Apatzingán."
On our way out I stepped into the dining room. Doña Josefina was there and I told her that we wouldn't be around for dinner that night.
"¿A dónde van?" she asked.
"Apatzingán." I added that we'd be gone for a day or two.
Doña Josefina stood there looking at me speechless for a moment. "Chayo is letting you go to Apatzingán?"
"Well, yes," I said. I was slightly taken aback at the way she worded it. "I talked it over with her."
"You did? So I guess it must be okay with her then."
"Is there some reason it wouldn't be?"
"No, no. It's nothing. Nothing. I just wish you a good trip, that's all."
"Is there something I should know?"
"It's for Chayo to tell you. If she chose not to say it, then it's not for me to intervene."
"I understand," I said, but I really didn't. Doña Josefina was being just as mysterious as Chayo had been.
"Please be careful," she said. "Chayo doesn't want to lose you. Pablo and I don't want to lose you either."
I was slightly disconcerted by her concern.
* * *
Doña Rosario's shop was closed for lunch. I went to the side entrance, and Chayo's cousin, Socorro, came to the door. She told me Chayo had just left, but hadn't said where she was going, or how long she'd be gone. She was probably making preparations for her trip to Chiapas.
MacClayne asked me if I'd like to wait for Chayo's return.
I thought for a moment, then said, "No, that would be like breaking the golden thread. We must leave at once." It was strange how quickly a fantasy could become a guiding principle.
So I wrote a note which I asked Socorro to pass on to her cousin. In it I briefly told Chayo about the white bird and that MacClayne and I were leaving for Apatzingán this afternoon. I ended it with, "Te quiero--Olaf."
Socorro was unusually quiet, and, as I handed her the note, I glimpsed a look of concern on her face. Not wishing to intrude upon her feelings, I pretended not to notice. "Take good care of Chayo and your aunt," I said as we left, and the girl forced a smile.
"She looked sad," MacClayne observed after we'd left the shop, and I nodded silently. I didn't want to have to explain a lot of things that I didn't understand very well myself.
We headed for the depot of the Galeana bus line, and arrived just as a bus was about to leave. Passengers were boarding, and we got in at the end of the line.
But, as we stood there, an empty, sinking feeling began to fill my stomach, and it intensified as the line shortened in front of us. Cuauhtémoc nudged me with his beak, trying to tell me something. Finally, when there were only a couple passengers left ahead of us, I turned to MacClayne and said, "This is not the way to Apatzingán."
"No?" He glanced up at the destination which was printed in large letters: APATZINGÁN.
"No, it's not," I said. "This bus would take us on a comfortable ride down a smooth, paved road. We'd be there in less than two hours."
"So what's wrong with that?"
"Our Apatzingán is a fabled city which can be reached only by a difficult journey of hardship, sacrifice, ... suffering," I said. "The town at the end of this easy ride would not be the legendary place we've been looking forward to."
Cuauhtémoc clucked in apparent assent, seconding what I'd said.
MacClayne looked at the bird, then at me. At last he said, "I was feeling something like that myself."
We stepped out of the line.
"There's got to be a more proper way," I said.
"Do you know of any?" MacClayne said uneasily.
In our correspondence we'd done an impressive amount of fantasizing, but precious little planning.
"We could go by way of Tancítaro," I said at last.
"Tancítaro? The snow-covered mountain?"
"It's a village on the slopes of that mountain. I've never been there, but from what Chayo has told me, there's a trail going down the mountainside from Tancítaro village to Apatzingán."
The last passengers had boarded the bus and the driver was starting the engine.
"How would we get there?"
"It's a three-hour ride up a washboard mountain road, one of those that jars your bones loose."
MacClayne nodded. "That sounds appropriate."
I glanced at Cuauhtémoc. His beak was firmly set and there was a determined look in his eye.
Several bus lines served this area and each had its own depot. The one we needed was six blocks away. It was sprinkling as we stepped out the door; then I remembered hearing that the road to Tancítaro village had been washed out by the rain. However, I wasn't absolutely sure about that and I didn't want to say anything to MacClayne and have him think I didn't know what I was doing. I'd ask when we got to the depot.
We trudged through the rain, finally arriving at the depot where we could catch a bus to Tancítaro. As we walked in through the entrance way, Cuauhtémoc suddenly jumped from my arms and flew across the waiting room. There, to my surprise, was Chayo, waiting for us.
The bird landed in her arms, and I rushed over to her. She put her arms around me as well, holding me tightly and laying her head on my shoulder. Cuauhtémoc was probably somewhere in the middle, getting squashed.
"¡Chayo! ¡Te quiero mucho!"
"Y yo a ti."
At last we stepped apart, and Cuauhtémoc wheezed for breath. "¡Pobrecito! You suffer a lot with us humans!" Chayo stroked his feathers and gave him a gentler hug.
Chayo, in her mysterious way, had somehow known that we were leaving for Apatzingán on this day and at this hour, and she'd even known that we'd be leaving from this depot. Even knowing Chayo as I did, I was truly amazed, and I told her so.
She smiled and said, "You credit me with more powers than I possess. I happened to be riding this way on a bus and saw the two of you heading up the street and I guessed that this depot was where you'd be going."
"You were right," I said. "We're leaving today for Apatzingán, by way of Tancítaro village." I was going to tell her about the white bird, MacClayne's folk tale and the golden thread, but then I remembered that I hadn't introduced MacClayne yet.
"Déjame presentar . . ." I began.
They exchanged the usual "Mucho gusto en conocerle," followed by a few lines of polite conversation. I was extremely curious to know their reactions to each other, but that would have to wait.
"Now I have to leave," she said, "but first let me have a moment with Cuauhtémoc." Still holding the bird in her arms, she went and sat down on one of the benches which was slightly apart from us, and began speaking to the bird. I couldn't hear what she was saying, but the bird was giving her his full attention.
To MacClayne, who was watching them, I said, "She nursed the bird back to health."
"Yes, I can see the rooster has a great affection for her. There are times when I think that birds and animals are endowed with feelings of gratitude," he said. "But what in the world can she be saying to the rooster?"
I was wondering that myself.
At last Chayo finished with the ceremony. Placing the bird in my arms, she said to him, "Cuídamelo bien a mi Olaf." Take good care of my Olaf for me.
Then she kissed me and, giving us a last-minute wave, hurried out the door.
I felt an irrational impulse to run out after her, and try one more time to find out what the big mystery was about Apatzingán. However, considering that we'd gone over all that the evening before, I knew it wouldn't've worked. "The answers you get may do you no good," she'd said, and on that I felt she was probably absolutely right.
We went to the window and got our tickets for the village of Tancítaro, then sat down to wait. It was still half an hour or so before the bus would leave.
"Chayo's very attractive," MacClayne said. "A Tarascan princess."
"That's certainly the way I see her," I said. "And I feel incredibly fortunate to have found her."
"I'm sure you are. And she's also fortunate to have found you."
I thanked MacClayne for his compliment. He had a way of saying nice things at times. Just as he had a way of saying extremely nasty things at other times.
"I'm glad I met her before we left," he said. "I assume she got your note telling her we were going to Apatzingán. But how do you think she knew we'd be coming to this particular depot? You didn't say anything about Tancítaro, did you?"
"No, I hadn't even thought of Tancítaro till afterwards. I was really surprised to see her here. She told me she happened to be riding by on a bus and saw us coming this way."
"A remarkable coincidence," he said.
Not wanting to explain that statistically improbable coincidences happened all the time around Chayo, I just said, "She's extremely intuitive."
"Yes, you were telling me earlier that people credit her with powers, and I can see why. When I saw her I got a sense of something like that about her. Something about her presence."
It surprised me to hear MacClayne, the quintessential scoffer and eternal skeptic, making these observations. I was even more amazed that he'd been able to pick up on that mystic sense about her, but I avoided saying more on that topic because I didn't want to sound overly credulous.
I thought it best to change the subject, and then I remembered that I needed a notebook and that there was a stationery shop just up the street. We still had plenty of time, so I excused myself, told MacClayne I'd be right back, and stepped out onto the street. Cuauhtémoc of course insisted on accompanying me. It wasn't raining at the moment, but looked like it could start at any time.
When I returned, MacClayne was reading a book. I looked to see the title--Sunny Days in the Tropics.
I sat down and opened my new spiral-bound notebook, and across the top of the first page I wrote, "To the future that awaits us like a blank page." But these pages weren't completely blank. They were ruled with lines to write on, places for words on the page, just as there were roads to take and places for things to happen in the journey ahead.
Cuauhtémoc was perched beside me on the backrest of the bench. He too seemed to be pondering the days ahead.
continued in Chapter 18
I rubbed my eyes and said to MacClayne, "What do you say we start off with coffee and some breakfast?" I was thinking of treating him at one of the more elegant cafés.
"How about that Chinese place?" he said.
"El Café Chino?"
"I'd like to see it."
I left Cuauhtémoc in my room, hoping the bird wouldn't mind, and set out with MacClayne.
The sky hung low and gray, but today that didn't bother MacClayne; his adventurous mood was infectious. We laughed and joked as we headed towards the plaza.
There's something about a dull, unimaginative hole-in-the-wall establishment like Café Chino that achieves personality through its total lack of personality. MacClayne was very impressed and conceded that it was everything he could've expected. We ordered coffee and exchanged accounts of legendary insipid eating places we'd known.
MacClayne recalled one on the east end of London, another in New York, and also one in the Falkland Islands. Being a world traveler, he'd been to some truly uninspiring places. He concluded by affirming that to find absolute banality, one must journey to the ends of the earth.
Our coffees arrived and we went on to review our plans for the next few days. The most important thing on our agenda was the excursion to Apatzingán, but we'd firmly decided during the months of our correspondence that one simply does not charge off to a fabled and forbidden city in a big hurry. This was to be like a Japanese tea ceremony, an experience where every move is made slowly and deliberately, and the actual drinking of the tea is almost incidental.
Our intentions were to spend the first few days touring Uruapan and its immediate environs. There was a lot that I wanted to show him in this ancient town of narrow streets and adobe houses, this land of volcanoes and lava flows, ranches and Indian villages. I'd put my lessons with don Javier on hold.
As we chatted I occasionally glanced at the backrest of the chair beside me. It felt empty without Cuauhtémoc perching there.
"The gunfight was in some nearby village, wasn't it?" MacClayne asked, apparently referring to something I had written to him in a letter.
"The gunfight?" I repeated, wondering which one he was talking about.
"The local OK Corral." He grinned.
"Oh, that." I grinned too, recalling that he'd written that he wanted to see the place. MacClayne was a fan of Western movies. "Yes, that was in Jucutacato, near the old ranch which had formerly belonged to Chayo's father. Some guy got his friends together and rode into town to settle a score with one of the villagers, and they shot it out, right there in the village square. A couple people were killed that day. The count depends on who you hear it from. Someone even told me it was around twenty, but that I doubt."
"Call it poetic license," said MacClayne.
I took a sip of my coffee. "Feuds have been going on here since time immemorial. Chayo told me they're part of the local tradition."
"Her father was shot, wasn't he. Was there any connection?"
"I don't think so, that OK Corral shootout was much earlier. When Chayo was little."
"But they eventually got the ranch away from him, didn't they?"
"That was a guy named Juan García," I said. "He's dead now, died a pretty bizarre death."
"He's the one who went crazy? Started seeing things, shot up the ranch house?"
"Yeah." I couldn't resist adding wryly, "Chayo got the credit for that."
"How?"
"Some people say she cast a spell on him."
"They do? You mean they think Chayo has supernatural powers?"
"It's just talk. You know how it is. The things people say." I shrugged my shoulders, took a sip of my coffee and glanced around the room, looking for some other topic. One of the few things I'd scrupulously avoided mentioning in my letters to MacClayne was anything to do with Chayo's apparent connection with paranormal stuff. That was because MacClayne was given to dismissing such things as superstition, and in the past had often heaped ridicule on any account of them. I hadn't intended to bring the topic up now either, it had just slipped out of my mouth. My big mouth.
MacClayne nodded pensively. "People do say and believe strange things, but at times it can leave you wondering. There was a woman back in Dundrennan, my home village. People said she had remarkable powers."
"What sort of powers?" I said. I was glad to have the subject of the paranormal shifted away from Chayo, and at the same time I was also curious to hear what MacClayne might have to say.
"I guess nowadays you'd call her an herbalist. She used to gather and sell herbs. And people also credited her with healing powers. There may've been some truth in it. Once when my brother was sick my parents called her and she came and laid her hands on him and he recovered. It may've been coincidence. I don't know."
It surprised me to hear him say anything so open-minded and sympathetic on that subject. But I knew that MacClayne could be argumentative. If I had suggested there was some reality to shamanism, he probably would've spent the next half hour debunking it.
"Are you getting hungry?" he said.
"Yes. We could have breakfast here. The food's not bad."
"What was that place you wrote about? You said it was built like something out of a Nordic myth."
"Antojitos."
"Yes, Antojitos. I remember now. Am I pronouncing it right?"
"You are."
"How about 'oor-wah-PAN'?" He incorrectly put the accent on the last syllable.
"It's 'oor-WAH-pan'," I corrected him. "Don't feel bad, I was here three days before I learned to say it right.
"I remember you writing about that." He tried it a couple times and eventually got it, though his Scottish accent made it charmingly unique. MacClayne spoke with a burr as rough as a Scottish thistle.
"You'd like to eat at Antojitos?" I said.
We set out for Antojitos, ambling down the arcade to the corner, crossing the street and pausing to look at the movie posters at a theater along the way, then we came to La Huatapera, the museum with the ancient, meter-thick adobe walls and stone fountain. It was open, and we took time to admire the displays of arts and crafts from centuries past.
"This is probably older than any building in the United States," I said. "And I think it was around the time they were building it that the Thirsty Mountain erupted."
"This is probably older than any building in the United States," I said. "And I think it was around the time they were building it that the Thirsty Mountain erupted."
"The Thirsty Mountain--that's the lava flow you've been studying, isn't it?"
"Yes, it's just down the road a couple of kilometers. We'll go there, maybe this afternoon."
"I'd like to see it," he said. "I think you were working on an article about it. Did you try sending it anywhere for publication?"
"I finished it. But I haven't sent it out yet."
"Wouldn't it be best to send it right away?" he said. "It sounds like a discovery that could be helpful to you in your geology career."
I bit my lip. "Before I try to publish I want to verify the original source of the legend," I said. I didn't tell him I was afraid that if it were published, Dr. Knudsen might hear about it and denounce me as a fraud. Although that possibility seemed remote, it nevertheless worried me to the extent that I hesitated to publish my find. I hadn't told MacClayne anything about the dubious nature of my degree, and I didn't care to go into it.
"Have you been able to find out any more about the source of the legend?"
"So far I've only seen it in a children's book."
"You don't think the author might have invented the story?"
"No. There are just too many precise details in it," I said. "He would've needed a background in geology to invent such a thing and describe it the way he did. Anyway, I'm hoping to find his original source."
"Where could he have gotten it?"
"Chayo has been helping me and she's looked for Indian storytellers who might know it, but so far without success. And we've also been hunting down various histories and memoirs from the 16th and 17th centuries. Most were written by Spanish friars. They're the most likely sources, but not easy to find. Most have been out of print for centuries."
"It sounds intriguing," MacClayne said. "I'm sure that while you're doing this search, even without finding it, you're learning a lot of the history of this region."
"I feel I am. I've even come across old references to Apatzingán. It was often called Cutzamala, a Náhuatl word meaning the same thing."
"Meaning the place of Apatzi. He's the god of death."
"Yes," I said. "Or at least that's how he's been classified. But to me that interpretation doesn't sound accurate, because the full translation of Apatzingán literally says it's the place where Apatzi was risen up."
"Risen up? From the dead, I presume?"
"That's the implication."
"So you don't think he was a grim reaper?"
"No, quite the opposite," I said. "Maybe more like a Tarascan version of Baldr."
No matter what topic we started out with, we soon wound up talking about Apatzingán.
We left the Huatapera and went to Antojitos, which was just around the corner. It was fairly empty; many of the stalls were closed and only a fraction of the usually bustling crowd was there, no doubt because of the unending inclement weather.
"So this is it?" MacClayne looked around admiringly, putting his hands on one of the massive wooden pillars. "You did not exaggerate. This would indeed have been worthy of Hrothgar and his warriors."
A whiff of cold mist hit us as we stood there; it took MacClayne back to nostalgic memories of the old country where it rained all the time. "There was a place like this not too far from Dundrennan, dating from the 12th century," he said.
"Do you like pozole?" I said, impatient to eat.
"What is it?"
"Soup, made of boiled pork and corn that looks like hominy."
MacClayne said he'd try some and we went to a stall where I ordered us each a bowl.
"How do you like it?" I asked him as we ate.
"Olaf, you are nothing less than a true connoisseur of gourmet delights, and when I become editor in chief of Diner's Abroad, I'll retain you at an excellent salary and send you forth to discover and report back the great culinary experiences of Latin America and the Orient as well."
It was MacClayne at his grandiloquent best. It was this kind of humor which made him a welcome guest in the places where he read his poetry.
"¿Su amigo es Norteamericano?" the lady vendor asked me. She knew me because I often came here with Chayo.
"Es de Escotia," I said.
"¿Yo?" MacClayne spoke up. "Sí, soy de Escotia."
"¿Le gustó el pozole?" she asked him.
"¡Muchísimo!" he assured her, scraping the last spoonful from his bowl with proverbial Scottish frugality.
Though MacClayne's Spanish was limited, I was repeatedly impressed at how well he handled what he did know.
As we got up to go, I glanced around for Cuauhtémoc, momentarily forgetting that he wasn't with me that morning.
Having started our tour of Uruapan on a very good note, we then set out for the Stone Gardens.
On the way we stopped at the boardinghouse to retrieve Cuauhtémoc. He greeted me with an unhappy squawk at having been locked in, and he'd also crapped in the middle of the floor rather than on the newspapers I'd laid out for the purpose. But I could clean that up later. The three of us set out for the Stone Gardens at the source of the Río Cupatitzio.
I had once found it hard to believe that a river of this size could simply flow out of the walls of this small canyon, and now MacClayne was as impressed as I had been.
We took our time, pausing often to admire the series of springs, the stonework, the fountains and bridges as we strolled up through the canyon. Eventually we came to the largest of the springs, which was at the head of the canyon. A large pond formed here. Wisps of fog hung low among the trees and over the water, enhancing the mystic quality.
"The Spring of Urð," I said.
"In all my travels I've seen nothing like this," he said. "I wouldn't have believed such a place even existed--except in the realm of myth and legend. But this region does indeed belong to the domain of folklore."
"For me it does," I said. "And, in a whimsical sense, it almost seems that the town itself was intentionally named after Urð."
We sat down on the ground, near the edge of the water.
"There are times when coincidence is almost too remarkable to be mere coincidence," he said. "How does the story of Urð go?"
"There's really no story about her," I said. "Only that she sits by the spring and carves out the runes which decide the lives men are to lead and the places their journeys will take them."
"Perhaps it was Urð who brought you to Uruapan," he said in his tongue-in-cheek way.
Chayo had suggested that too. Maybe I'd mentioned that to MacClayne in a letter--but I'd never written anything of how I'd gotten on the wrong bus and arrived in this town by accident. And I felt it best not to say it now either, lest he consider me less than competent. "Yes," I said, "it was Urð, and I shall always thank her for it."
These thoughts expressed, we lapsed into a comfortable silence, contemplating the pond, the trees, the grass and the black lava, each of us retreating into his own world of rock, water and mist.
Cuauhtémoc did likewise.
The sky was still overcast, and I'd been rubbing my arms all morning to keep warm. But, as I sat there gazing into the pond, I began to experience a pleasant misty feeling. Time stopped. It could have been for minutes, perhaps much longer.
Out of the corner of my eye, I saw a large white bird appear out of the mist, descend to the pool, and land in the middle. She swam to where Cuauhtémoc stood on the bank and touched beaks with him, exchanging a silent communication, bird to bird.
Then she turned and began swimming slowly away, but at the last instant turned and gazed briefly at MacClayne and me, giving a brief nod, as if of approval. Then she took to the air and disappeared into the mist.
"I remember a folk tale," MacClayne said, breaking the silence. "One they used to tell in the old country. Back in Scotland."
I continued to contemplate the faint ripples which still spread out across the surface of the pond, the only evidence of the white bird's fleeting visit.
"A man was crossing the mountains. There was hardly any trail for him to follow."
"Yes?" I said to let MacClayne know I was following his story. Cuauhtémoc had moved to a better position and turned his head to listen.
"This traveler was led by a white bird, to which he was attached by a long golden thread. His path took him along dangerous cliffs, through ravines and across rivers. There were storms. It rained and even snowed. Wild beasts stalked him, but he had no serious difficulty, due to his connection with the white bird."
MacClayne spoke slowly, gazing into the water. I hardly moved.
"But the golden thread broke. I don't remember how, but it did break. Maybe the traveler tarried too long in some place along the way. Anyway, he lost his connection with the white bird. Soon he was hopelessly lost and wandered in circles. This went on for many days and there appeared to be no chance of his coming out alive."
MacClayne paused.
I waited for him to go on, but he seemed to have come to the end of his story. The ripples in the pond were scarcely visible now. Then I realized he was looking at me.
"So when are we going?" he said.
"Going where?" I said.
"To Apatzingán. Isn't that what we've been planning?"
Suddenly I was shivering with cold and I began rubbing my arms and tried to stand up, but my legs had gone to sleep and a thousand needles were going through them.
MacClayne sat there, gazing into the pool again. Wasn't he cold?
I stopped rubbing my arms and legs just long enough to glance at my watch. One o'clock. It wasn't supposed to be one o'clock. An entire hour seemed unaccounted for, and I felt disoriented.
"When do you want to leave?" was all I could think to say.
"How about right now?"
His suggestion took me by surprise. I wanted to object that we'd made plans to first spend a week or so here in Uruapan. There were all those numerous places to visit. The malpaís, Volcán Paricutín, the village square of Jucutacato, and so much more. And besides, it was a bit late in the day to be starting out on something like this. But I was suddenly struck with an eerie feeling that we mustn't tarry and break the golden thread. That's what MacClayne seemed to have been saying, and maybe he was right.
"Then let's go." My own words felt strange to me, but perhaps it was the right thing to do. I vaguely wondered if MacClayne had also seen the white bird, or if I'd somehow invented it. Trying to sort this out only added to my confusion. I still felt slightly disoriented. I was shivering from the cold, but my legs began returning to normal and I stood up.
So did MacClayne, a bit stiffly but otherwise okay. Although he was fully twice my age, he didn't show it except for his gray hair. I wondered what color it had originally been.
Cuauhtémoc hopped onto my arm and we hurried back to the boardinghouse where I quickly tossed a few things in a small backpack. Since I wore sandals I didn't need socks; I took an extra T-shirt, a razor and toothbrush, a couple books to read, and Cuauhtémoc's small blanket. The spiral notebook in which I wrote my journal was nearly full, so I decided to leave it behind. Along the way I'd stop at a store to get another.
A minute later MacClayne emerged from his room with a small shoulder bag.
"You're taking the rooster with us?" he asked when he saw the bird on my arm.
"He goes everywhere with me."
Cuauhtémoc looked at MacClayne and crowed, as if to say, "Damn right I'm going with you guys!"
MacClayne eyed us both rather strangely for a moment, then said, "Well, let's get on the road."
"One other thing," I said. "I'd like to stop by and let Chayo know that we're leaving for Apatzingán."
On our way out I stepped into the dining room. Doña Josefina was there and I told her that we wouldn't be around for dinner that night.
"¿A dónde van?" she asked.
"Apatzingán." I added that we'd be gone for a day or two.
Doña Josefina stood there looking at me speechless for a moment. "Chayo is letting you go to Apatzingán?"
"Well, yes," I said. I was slightly taken aback at the way she worded it. "I talked it over with her."
"You did? So I guess it must be okay with her then."
"Is there some reason it wouldn't be?"
"No, no. It's nothing. Nothing. I just wish you a good trip, that's all."
"Is there something I should know?"
"It's for Chayo to tell you. If she chose not to say it, then it's not for me to intervene."
"I understand," I said, but I really didn't. Doña Josefina was being just as mysterious as Chayo had been.
"Please be careful," she said. "Chayo doesn't want to lose you. Pablo and I don't want to lose you either."
I was slightly disconcerted by her concern.
* * *
Doña Rosario's shop was closed for lunch. I went to the side entrance, and Chayo's cousin, Socorro, came to the door. She told me Chayo had just left, but hadn't said where she was going, or how long she'd be gone. She was probably making preparations for her trip to Chiapas.
MacClayne asked me if I'd like to wait for Chayo's return.
I thought for a moment, then said, "No, that would be like breaking the golden thread. We must leave at once." It was strange how quickly a fantasy could become a guiding principle.
So I wrote a note which I asked Socorro to pass on to her cousin. In it I briefly told Chayo about the white bird and that MacClayne and I were leaving for Apatzingán this afternoon. I ended it with, "Te quiero--Olaf."
Socorro was unusually quiet, and, as I handed her the note, I glimpsed a look of concern on her face. Not wishing to intrude upon her feelings, I pretended not to notice. "Take good care of Chayo and your aunt," I said as we left, and the girl forced a smile.
"She looked sad," MacClayne observed after we'd left the shop, and I nodded silently. I didn't want to have to explain a lot of things that I didn't understand very well myself.
We headed for the depot of the Galeana bus line, and arrived just as a bus was about to leave. Passengers were boarding, and we got in at the end of the line.
But, as we stood there, an empty, sinking feeling began to fill my stomach, and it intensified as the line shortened in front of us. Cuauhtémoc nudged me with his beak, trying to tell me something. Finally, when there were only a couple passengers left ahead of us, I turned to MacClayne and said, "This is not the way to Apatzingán."
"No?" He glanced up at the destination which was printed in large letters: APATZINGÁN.
"No, it's not," I said. "This bus would take us on a comfortable ride down a smooth, paved road. We'd be there in less than two hours."
"So what's wrong with that?"
"Our Apatzingán is a fabled city which can be reached only by a difficult journey of hardship, sacrifice, ... suffering," I said. "The town at the end of this easy ride would not be the legendary place we've been looking forward to."
Cuauhtémoc clucked in apparent assent, seconding what I'd said.
MacClayne looked at the bird, then at me. At last he said, "I was feeling something like that myself."
We stepped out of the line.
"There's got to be a more proper way," I said.
"Do you know of any?" MacClayne said uneasily.
In our correspondence we'd done an impressive amount of fantasizing, but precious little planning.
"We could go by way of Tancítaro," I said at last.
"Tancítaro? The snow-covered mountain?"
"It's a village on the slopes of that mountain. I've never been there, but from what Chayo has told me, there's a trail going down the mountainside from Tancítaro village to Apatzingán."
The last passengers had boarded the bus and the driver was starting the engine.
"How would we get there?"
"It's a three-hour ride up a washboard mountain road, one of those that jars your bones loose."
MacClayne nodded. "That sounds appropriate."
I glanced at Cuauhtémoc. His beak was firmly set and there was a determined look in his eye.
Several bus lines served this area and each had its own depot. The one we needed was six blocks away. It was sprinkling as we stepped out the door; then I remembered hearing that the road to Tancítaro village had been washed out by the rain. However, I wasn't absolutely sure about that and I didn't want to say anything to MacClayne and have him think I didn't know what I was doing. I'd ask when we got to the depot.
We trudged through the rain, finally arriving at the depot where we could catch a bus to Tancítaro. As we walked in through the entrance way, Cuauhtémoc suddenly jumped from my arms and flew across the waiting room. There, to my surprise, was Chayo, waiting for us.
The bird landed in her arms, and I rushed over to her. She put her arms around me as well, holding me tightly and laying her head on my shoulder. Cuauhtémoc was probably somewhere in the middle, getting squashed.
"¡Chayo! ¡Te quiero mucho!"
"Y yo a ti."
At last we stepped apart, and Cuauhtémoc wheezed for breath. "¡Pobrecito! You suffer a lot with us humans!" Chayo stroked his feathers and gave him a gentler hug.
Chayo, in her mysterious way, had somehow known that we were leaving for Apatzingán on this day and at this hour, and she'd even known that we'd be leaving from this depot. Even knowing Chayo as I did, I was truly amazed, and I told her so.
She smiled and said, "You credit me with more powers than I possess. I happened to be riding this way on a bus and saw the two of you heading up the street and I guessed that this depot was where you'd be going."
"You were right," I said. "We're leaving today for Apatzingán, by way of Tancítaro village." I was going to tell her about the white bird, MacClayne's folk tale and the golden thread, but then I remembered that I hadn't introduced MacClayne yet.
"Déjame presentar . . ." I began.
They exchanged the usual "Mucho gusto en conocerle," followed by a few lines of polite conversation. I was extremely curious to know their reactions to each other, but that would have to wait.
"Now I have to leave," she said, "but first let me have a moment with Cuauhtémoc." Still holding the bird in her arms, she went and sat down on one of the benches which was slightly apart from us, and began speaking to the bird. I couldn't hear what she was saying, but the bird was giving her his full attention.
To MacClayne, who was watching them, I said, "She nursed the bird back to health."
"Yes, I can see the rooster has a great affection for her. There are times when I think that birds and animals are endowed with feelings of gratitude," he said. "But what in the world can she be saying to the rooster?"
I was wondering that myself.
At last Chayo finished with the ceremony. Placing the bird in my arms, she said to him, "Cuídamelo bien a mi Olaf." Take good care of my Olaf for me.
Then she kissed me and, giving us a last-minute wave, hurried out the door.
I felt an irrational impulse to run out after her, and try one more time to find out what the big mystery was about Apatzingán. However, considering that we'd gone over all that the evening before, I knew it wouldn't've worked. "The answers you get may do you no good," she'd said, and on that I felt she was probably absolutely right.
We went to the window and got our tickets for the village of Tancítaro, then sat down to wait. It was still half an hour or so before the bus would leave.
"Chayo's very attractive," MacClayne said. "A Tarascan princess."
"That's certainly the way I see her," I said. "And I feel incredibly fortunate to have found her."
"I'm sure you are. And she's also fortunate to have found you."
I thanked MacClayne for his compliment. He had a way of saying nice things at times. Just as he had a way of saying extremely nasty things at other times.
"I'm glad I met her before we left," he said. "I assume she got your note telling her we were going to Apatzingán. But how do you think she knew we'd be coming to this particular depot? You didn't say anything about Tancítaro, did you?"
"No, I hadn't even thought of Tancítaro till afterwards. I was really surprised to see her here. She told me she happened to be riding by on a bus and saw us coming this way."
"A remarkable coincidence," he said.
Not wanting to explain that statistically improbable coincidences happened all the time around Chayo, I just said, "She's extremely intuitive."
"Yes, you were telling me earlier that people credit her with powers, and I can see why. When I saw her I got a sense of something like that about her. Something about her presence."
It surprised me to hear MacClayne, the quintessential scoffer and eternal skeptic, making these observations. I was even more amazed that he'd been able to pick up on that mystic sense about her, but I avoided saying more on that topic because I didn't want to sound overly credulous.
I thought it best to change the subject, and then I remembered that I needed a notebook and that there was a stationery shop just up the street. We still had plenty of time, so I excused myself, told MacClayne I'd be right back, and stepped out onto the street. Cuauhtémoc of course insisted on accompanying me. It wasn't raining at the moment, but looked like it could start at any time.
When I returned, MacClayne was reading a book. I looked to see the title--Sunny Days in the Tropics.
I sat down and opened my new spiral-bound notebook, and across the top of the first page I wrote, "To the future that awaits us like a blank page." But these pages weren't completely blank. They were ruled with lines to write on, places for words on the page, just as there were roads to take and places for things to happen in the journey ahead.
Cuauhtémoc was perched beside me on the backrest of the bench. He too seemed to be pondering the days ahead.
continued in Chapter 18
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