The Children of the Sun

Four figures emerged from the desert looking like men resurrected before the appointed hour, their bodies riddled with corruption. For days they had tracked us from a distance. No tribe we had encountered would have followed armed Christians across the desert. The four shadows did.

Their defiant steps drummed the desert sands in an unbroken rhythm beneath the New Mexican sun. It was madness. I kept my left hand on my rapier and my right hand ready to retrieve my arquebus.

Governor Guzman had given me orders to hunt for esclavos de la guerra, slaves of war. They were to be shipped off for labor to the Caribbean colonies. I was charged to tame the New Mexican lands, so that Guzman’s claim would rival that of Cortes. As the indigenous people grew more unruly, Guzman’s cruelty grew more severe. Just a week ago, Tangoxoán II, the king of the Cazonci people, had lavished Guzman with gold, silver, soldiers and provisions. Guzman accused him of hoarding riches. Strung him by his feet to a war horse. Let him be dragged within an inch of death. Then burned him alive as a warning. And if I failed to supply enough labor for the encomienda, I could suffer such a fate.

I galloped over to where the men stood, bringing my Pueblo native Walatowa with me to interpret. They yelled as I approached. I did not recognize the tribal tongue as any Cáhita dialect of Sinaloa. My left hand squeezed the hilt of my sword. They continued yelling incoherently. Hoarse exclamations. Then I heard it. The men were calling out in my mother tongue, Castellano, shouting, “Dios nos guarde.” Then, “Señor, sálvame; que perezco.” God preserve us! Lord, save me, I am perishing.

One was covered head-to-toe in mud, native hide canvas, beads, and hair which had grown around his head and down his chest like John the Baptist wandering through the wilderness. He stepped forward to address me, and I shouted, “No, no –” unsheathing my sword and signaling with my other hand for him to stay where he stood.

Walatowa said, “Tomas, these are the men they call ‘Los Hijos del Sol,’ Children of the Sun.”

“Why do they call them that?”

“The tribes think them to be medicine men.”

“They perform miracles?”

“It is said they have cured many using strange magic. Native mothers bring their children a great distance to see them.”

“But they speak Spanish?”

“Everywhere they go they say they are noblemen from Spain, but no one believes them.”

Looking at them, I could not decide whether that was the most absurd thing I had ever heard—or the most frightening.

***

I brought the Children of the Sun with me to our settlement at San Miguel de Culiacán. After inspecting the horse tack, feeding the horses, and stashing our armor, I asked Walatowa to bring the one who called himself Cabeza de Vaca to my quarters.

I lit a small oil lamp and placed it in the center of the table. I found a carafe of Mezcal from Guzman’s alquitarra stills and poured two cups. One for myself, one for Cabeza. Thinking of the unfeeling eyes that had stared out from that skeletal shell, I filled his cup to the brim.

Before sitting, he touched every wall in the room, as if reassuring himself that they were real.

“Let me tell you my story,” he said. “But I must warn you, even in the realm of fiction, you will not find a more bizarre or tragic tale. Perhaps there has never been a more luckless expedition. It is a tale of a man who set out like Cortes with great enthusiasm, hoping for treasure and glory. Like Cortes, to find his own Mexico. And that same man found himself stranded in a land that tried to kill him repeatedly, until he has now been reduced to the condition of the roaming animal you see before you.”

As Cabeza recounted the details of the Narvaez expedition, his face turned pale. I had heard the details from others already. It was believed that all 300 men had perished. Walatowa arrived with our meal and joined us, quietly.

Cabeza turned to his food and ate the beans and meat with his hands, like an animal, huddled over his food and guarding it. When finished, he returned to himself. I handed him a cloth and a ceramic bowl of water to wash himself.

“After days without food, one man drank seawater. By sunset he was screaming that angels stood on the waves beckoning him home. Who can say how many died of madness and drank from the cup that does not quench?”

Cabeza recounted the shipwreck. How the sea screamed and hissed. The way the horses kicked against their bindings so hard that some of them maimed themselves. He described the wailing of men and animals writhing in pain.

“Back on land, there was no food. The first horse died on the third day. We ate him. The second horse died two days later. We ate him too. At first the Indians kept their distance out of horror. Then, after a week, they raided our camp, forcing us back out to sea.”

“But your ships were at the bottom of the sea.”

“We built new boats from horse hides."

I laughed. Cabeza did not.

"I assure you, Tomas, they were hardly seaworthy. Being an inhabitant in the belly of a whale would have made for safer passage.”

“But you continued your journey, nonetheless?”

Cabeza sighed. “Sadly, yes. I still responded to duty. Believed my commission to be a calling. I had not learned to heed God’s warnings. The Good Lord does not tire of instruction. Days later, another storm buffeted us against the rocks of an island. The waves were so unmoored that I sometimes think I am still caught in their throes. They named the place Malhado, which means ‘ill-luck.’”

“And what happened to your men?”

“When we reached the island, we counted our number. Forty-two men had survived. Three months later there were fifteen. By spring there were four.”

“What did you do, having lost everything?” Walatowa asked.

Cabeza looked at both of us with shame, as if unsure if he should admit what came next.

“We became slaves."

Walatowa shifted uneasily.

"Slaves?" he asked.

Cabeza nodded.

"The Christians make slaves. We became them. It was better than dying from starvation.”

***

He rode in at the break of day. Armor polished. Arriving at my quarters, he unrolled a scroll from Guzman. “Collect the Requerimiento of slaves. Train and arm the capable. I move northwest for Culiacán. All in our path will fall. All the Cáhita peoples will kneel before the King. Gather forces. Await my arrival. If your actions bring shame to our cause, you will answer to God, the King, and the edge of my steel.”

All day I made plans for the slave raid against the Capoque, the Indians that had held Cabeza captive for six long years. Walatowa briefed me on our enemy.

"A month ago, the Capoque defeated a band of Comanches. They ate the fallen warriors and painted themselves in their blood."

"Why?"

"They believe bravery can be consumed."

"Then bravery is their coin."

"The only coin they recognize. Tomas—these are the men you want to enslave?”

“It is my commission to do so.”

“They may look primitive, but these are civilized men.”

“Bring in Cabeza.”

Cabeza entered with the same uneasy deportment as last time.

“God keep your grace, Captain.”

“Sit down.”

“What is it?”

“Tomorrow I am riding to hunt the Capoque. As we speak, the horses are being fed and dressed. There will be about two hundred of us.”

“By what authority do you take another man’s freedom?”

“I am authorized by the king to keep slaves of war.”

“You have no dispute with these people.”

“Our dispute is that Spain has claimed these lands. They live here in defiance of Spain’s claim.”

“They have been here since before time itself.”

“I thought you would help – these men enslaved you.”

“It was voluntary. I agreed to indentured servitude, to work gathering roots, doing manual labor, in exchange for sustenance and protection. Which they gave me. For six years.”

“For six years you could have been their equal. Instead, they made you their slave.”

“I was here in their lands. Alone. Dying. And they showed mercy. That is not the same as what you are doing. Plucking men from their families and their lands, boarding them on boats, and depriving them of their birthright.”

“It is all the same. Men take what they can.”

“They allowed me to trade. In time, to move among their peoples as a healer. Eventually I was revered as a god, and they would not eat without my blessing. And when I snuck away with the others from the garden of the prickly pears, none followed in pursuit.”

“Nonetheless, you were not free. Neither will they be when I capture them.”

“Señor. Come to your senses. I beg you.”

“I face the savages or I face Guzman. One brings titles and wealth. The other certain death. Do not preach to me about Christian ethics.”

“So, it is for coin?”

"You think I do this for greed?"

"Then why?"

"Because I watched Guzman burn a king alive in broad daylight with no remorse."

“And how much worse will you do?”

“You have done the same, in Italy. And if we do not do it, the ones that come after us will do it even more ruthlessly. The order is decreed already. It is only a question of who will execute it.”

“I was never a slave trader.”

“No, you only butchered the king’s enemies in cold blood.”

“That is true.”

“I will make it simple for you. You know these people. You can speak their language. Intermediate. You ride with me tomorrow. When the boats are loaded, I will bring you with me to Mexico. And if you refuse, I will put you on the ships with them.”

“You leave me no choice.”

“Good, then it is settled.”

“But do not expect me to help you if you should fall in battle.”

“If I should fall, God himself could not save me.”

***

Our horses churned the trail into clouds of pale dust that hung in the still air behind us. Above us, the afternoon sun loomed over the valley like a silent executioner, beating down upon stone, beast, and man alike. But I kept the war party moving, as we had seen no sign of the Capoque.

Cabeza rode beside me. His presence alone brought a measure of comfort.

“We must stop for water,” he said.

The beasts tossed their heads and pulled eagerly at the reins, desperate for water after hours beneath the punishing sun.

At first, I could not place the feeling. Then I realized what was missing. There were no deer tracks in the mud. No birdsong in the trees. No squirrels darting through the undergrowth. The forest seemed abandoned. It was the silence that portends a predator in the valley.

When I first heard the whistle of arrows whizzing through the dry air, it was already far too late. A war horn sounded from the edge of the forest, followed by a chorus of screams and battle cries. I charged in the direction of the commotion and tried to rally my men.

How did the Capoque know we were coming? Shapes exploded from the forest. A horse screamed as a club shattered its jaw. Its rider pitched headlong into the dirt. Before he could rise, three warriors descended upon him, seizing his limbs and dragging him into the undergrowth. The man kicked and clawed at the earth, leaving furrows in the soil until the trees consumed him. I never saw him again. Knowing what I knew of the Capoque, I dared not imagine what awaited him beyond that green curtain.

“This is no attack,” Cabeza said. “This is just a warning.”

“They took three men already.”

“Those men are gone, señor.”

“I have orders for a thousand men.”

“You will be lucky if you return with five. And to get five may cost you your own life.”

“So be it,” I said. But my heart burned in my chest.

I leveled my arquebus at a warrior drawing his bow. The rifle roared. Smoke engulfed my vision. When it cleared, the man lay crumpled among the roots. I spurred my horse forward, reloading by instinct. Another warrior crouched in the branches above, arrow nocked and ready. I fired before he could loose it. He pitched backward from the tree and struck the earth with a sickening crack.

To my left, one of our soldiers fought on foot against two Capoque. His Toledo blade flashed through the air, but the warriors slipped inside its reach. One buried an axe in his shoulder while the other drove a knife beneath his ribs. The Spaniard staggered and disappeared beneath them.

Then I saw the thing that still haunts my dreams.

Beneath the shade of the pines, a Capoque warrior knelt over one of our fallen men. Blood coated his mouth and chest. He leaned into the wound and tore it wider with his blade. Then he reached into the cavity and withdrew the liver. Holding the organ high above his head, he let out a piercing cry that echoed through the trees. Before all of us, he sank his teeth into the flesh and tore away a mouthful. Blood ran down his chin. He pounded his chest and screamed his triumph to the forest.

We had come as hunters and discovered we were the prey.

In a clearing, I saw the Chieftain. He held a staff, his bow slung across his back. I took aim. We locked eyes. His throwing axe was in his free hand. I was in range. But he remained still. He looked at me the way a man looks at someone already dead. I spurred my horse forward. "Look out!" Cabeza screamed.

I suddenly felt a piercing sting in my side. Looking down I saw the fins of the arrow’s tail, the shaft extending clean through my torso. My limbs grew heavy and I lost the ability to hold my legs firm, and slid off the horse, falling to the ground.

As the warmth left my limbs, I watched my men being cut down. Of our hundreds only maybe fifty were left. The rest had already fled.

My sight dimmed. I was cold. A cold nothing could penetrate.

***

Cabeza knelt over me. His face was framed against the sun. His untamed mane of hair merged into a wind-whipped beard, both textured by the elements. John the Baptist came suddenly to mind. Then the stories of the Children of the Sun. The images drifted together until I could no longer separate one from the other.

I felt his hands working at the arrow and the straps of my armor. The steel scraped against itself as he pulled it away.

The world still shimmered with heat. The stones burned. The air trembled. The sun blazed overhead radiating heat. Yet none of its warmth could reach me. Something cold had wrapped itself around my limbs and was drawing me downward into something colder still.

Only then did I understand why they called them the Children of the Sun.

“Señor,” he said.

His voice seemed to come from very far away.

“You are not finished yet. You must still return me to Mexico.”

I tried to answer, but I had already lost connection to my body. I clung to his arm as though he alone remained fixed in a world that was fading. “Heal me,” I thought.

The sunlight spread around him until I could no longer see where the man ended and the radiance began. Whether it was the Holy Ghost, the power of his healing, or merely the final wanderings of a dying mind, I cannot say.

When the darkness finally came, it found me at peace.

***

I awoke back in my quarters in San Miguel de Culiacán.

Cabeza and Walatowa were there dressing my wound.

“He is awake,” Walatowa said.

“Señor, you have returned.”

“You healed me. You are what they say.”

“No señor, I just kept you safe until we could get you out.”

“What happened?”

“You lost about fifteen men. More injured. The retreat was successful,” Walatowa said.

“Cabeza, what is it you said to me out there?”

“Nothing señor. You were in shock. Hallucinating and mumbling. I tried to keep you calm is all.”

“But your head glowed in the sun. Like the Indians described.”

"There is no end to the tricks our minds can play on us."

He smiled.

"Just yesterday you believed you owned this land."

“Walatowa.”

“Yes, señor.”

“Entrust the command to Andres. Tell him Guzman is coming.”

“And when he arrives?”

“We face him.”

“Face him?”

"Because his courier announced a war against all the Cáhita peoples. He will never stop until every last one of them is dead or in chains."

Silence.

"This cannot happen."

“Yes señor. But… won’t Guzman—” I put my hand on his shoulder.

“—there will be time later. To discuss. To plan. God is with us. That is all that matters. Prepare a party of about fifty men.”

"For what?"

"When I am well enough, we travel to Mexico. Then we will rejoin you to deal with Guzman."

“For what purpose do you leave now,” Walatowa asked.

I looked at Cabeza.

“I must repay a debt to a friend.”

"And what of the man who rode out this morning to enslave the Capoque?" Cabeza asked.

He waited.

"Perhaps the Indians were right about one thing."

"What is that?"

I glanced toward the sunlight spilling through the window.

"We are all children of the sun."