In the Palm of the Jaguar

Copyright © 2010 by David Aaron DeSoto, Esq.

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ISBN: 978-1-469-76934-9 (ebook)

ISBN: 978-0-595-19568-8 (sc)

Printed in the United States of America

iUniverse rev. date: 9/14/2010

Contents

PREFACE

AUTHOR’S NOTES ON THIS SECOND EDITION

ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

THE KINGDOMS OF XOCTLI-QUETZIN, 124

AND

SPAIN, 1545

THE VICEROYALTY OF NEW SPAIN, 1575

SPAIN, 1635

TALAMERA, 1911

TALAMERA, TWO YEARS LATER

THE UNITED STATES OF AMERICA, 1985

THE HONDURAN/NICARAGUAN BORDER, 1985

ITALY, 1996

CONCLUSION POR EL TIEMPO

TH E UNITED STATES OF AMERICA, 1990,

TH E KINGDOM OF XOCTLI-QUETZIN,

TH E CONFERENCE OF SOULS, AND

THE COMPASS

PART ONE

TEMPLO DE AMOR

TEMPLO DE CERO

1969

TEMPLO DE AMOR

TEMPLO DE DOLOR

TEMPLO DE AMOR

TEMPLO DE AMOR

TEMPLO DE CERO

1975

TEMPLO DE AMOR

TEMPLO DE AMOR

TEMPLO DE CERO

1980

TEMPLO DE AMOR

TEMPLO DE AMOR

TEMPLO DE DOLOR

TEMPLO DE AMOR

TEMPLO DE AMOR

TEMPLO DE AMOR

TEMPLO DE DOLOR

TEMPLO DE CERO

TEMPLO DE AMOR

MEXICO, 1990,

TH E KINGDOM OF XOCTLI-QUETZIN,

TH E CONFERENCE OF SOULS, AND

THE COMPASS

PART TWO

TEMPLO DE AMOR

TEMPLO DE AMOR

TEMPLO DE AMOR

TEMPLO DE FINI

PROLOGUE

ABOUT THE AUTHOR

Preface

What you are about to read is a dream put into words. Th e inspiration stemmed from the very sources of our nightly journeys through the rich corridors of the mind; a little reality, some small terror, and a dash of fantasy.

This is not an attempt at historical fiction, as I am of the opinion that all history is, to an extent, fictions molded to the needs of the present. In a similar vein, our view of ourselves, of others, and the relationships between, are little more than a compilation of fi ctions drafted by our perception of the moment. Perception is the paint which colors the way in which we see our lives unfold. As time passes, the brilliance of once lovely paintings slowly fades into memory. Th is is, in the end, historical fiction only by virtue of my encapsulating the reds and greens of a moment.

Author’s Notes on this Second Edition

Since the original printing of In the Palm of the Jaguar, I have received comments and correspondence from many people who were quite taken with the emotional examination of the two main characters. All of us have longings, regrets and yearnings. I have been blessed to have so many readers share their intimate secrets with me. In many ways their stories will forever exceed the shadowy forms of love conveyed herein. Everyone has their Amy, it seems. Do your best to hold your dreams of the past close at heart, but leave room to embrace the present.

Scribbled in coffee shops throughout Texas and New Mexico.

Acknowledgments

The author wishes to thank the following for their help, guidance, love, dementia, or other assistance in the creation of this book: Dr. Antonio Calabria, Dr. Virginia Burnett, the late Professor Roy Hillenbach, Ginger, Pamela Harrell, Kevin Hopper, Allison Mathews, Lisa Colligan, Marshall Shannon, Patricia Barsalou, the University of Texas at San Antonio, Grandy’s in Lubbock, Texas, and Keebie.

Let our cries be heard,

in every drop of rain

until Tlaloc smiles,

and lets us play.

Babies sing with open

mouths of eternal jade.

Let our fears and hatred rest

in the palm of the jaguar.

The Kingdoms of Xoctli-Quetzin, 124

and

Spain, 1545

PADHUMA

The gathering of people had waited all day by the rock. Waited for the ceremony, waited for the rebirth. They stood in reverent silence; a thousand believers reviving a thousand lifetimes of belief.

Sweat and a hushed anxiety exuded from the throng. Th ere was a stillness on the plain, as if not a single animal, let alone this mass of people, stood baking. All eyes and attention focused on a single pale ceremonial rock, roughly the size of one of their corn baskets. Padhuma, as they called it, was a stone of legends.

Long ago, when the tribal ancestors journeyed through the wastelands in search of a new home, there came a prophecy. In the night sky appeared the god of life, who bade the wanderers not to settle until they found the rock. In this arid and desolate land the ancestors came upon Padhuma. Sacrifices were made and prayers offered up in thanks to the gods for brining their journey through darkness to an end. Despite the initial starvation and disease, the ancestors forged first villages and then an empire from the land. Padhuma was a point of destiny, the mother and father of all life.

Once a year the elders came to the rock in remembrance of the vision which appeared so many years past. It was a time, too, when new visions were sought. This annual event was the only one at which all the leaders of society could be found at the same place. Life in the villages stopped for the day and all inhabitants stayed shut within their modest dwellings wrapped in silent morning meditation before departing to the rock. For a whole week before the event, there were many great feasts. Dancing, eating, and song were the order of the day. Life was celebrated with feverish intensity until the meeting day. After the conference upon the rock, where fates were told, there may never again be rejoicing. And so the people lived.

At Padhuma, gods were invoked and visions seen. Th e future was foretold once each year by placing a single grain upon the stone. The movement of that single grain heralded the events to come and directed the people forward. Leaders drank of the sacred water gathered at the base of Padhuma and were thus filled with the wisdom and the wishes of the gods; assuring the legitimacy and divination of rule. That which was told at Padhuma was indisputable. To deny this authority of earth was to take arms against the gods themselves.

SEVILLE

Sunlight’s early rays danced upon the rooftops of Seville. Carts moved sluggishly through the streets, the horses drawn by masters more tired than their beasts. Merchants walked briskly along the docks, badgering husky sailors. Activity, noise, and the scent of garbage woke the citizens to the business of living. To be without these, it was reasoned, was to be without prosperity.

Fernan sat on a crate by the docks this morning, gazing into the expanse of ocean that lay before him. His night had been spent sleeping in the half-dreams concocted by men of adventure. Of his twenty years, the last seven had been years of war. He remained youthful still, a young man’s innocence glowing in his eyes. Th ere was a certain pride he felt in this. Unlike his friends, he did not have the black dreams and scars of Italy. Body and soul remained pure, and he would remain the sword of his king and the Lord.

Leather knee-boots stirring the filth, Fernan moved down the narrow street to the pier. He mused whether sea demons would eat the ship, if starvation would ravage him or whether he should fall prey to the blade of a foe. He did know that should he reach the other side, riches and glory were his for eternity. With this thought, then, the young Spaniard climbed aboard the ship.

INVOCATION

Padhuma was restless this day. Clouds moved in from the horizon to ominously obscure the otherwise sunny day. The silence around the rock was broken as the priests moved forward and embraced the trembling stone. Grains from the sacred fields were laid on top and other offerings were scattered around the base. The priests moved about with a patient grace that cloaked their hurried hearts. Th e invocation must begin shortly, before the coming storm.

Quexti-Ixtal, oldest of the priests, was to make the invocation. He was of the most noble priest lineage in the empire. For the fi ve generations before him, a member of his family had always been the Servant Supreme of Padhuma. The ancestors, it was believed, became part of the stone when they died. To communicate with Padhuma was to speak with the souls of the afterlife, to be aided by the family, to draw upon the strength of death itself.

Darkness came quickly. Raindrops washed away the grains and offerings. Quexti recited the invocation with trepidation and at a feverish pitch. The priests stirred within the rain, trying to maintain their footing. Then it came.

The phantom serpent fl ew high above the crowd on fi re colored wings. It was the size of three men, and soared upon wings the length of ten. With eyes of the sea and a tongue the shade of death, the green bodied vision swooped down upon the gathering. Th e priests tasted fear within their gaping mouths. For a passing moment, they wondered whether this was the cleansing fire of the gods as foretold by generations past. The end of all life appeared as a fl aming dawn of annihilation before them.

So heavy was this vision that the very brains of the men seemed to boil in damnation. Blood dripped in beads from their eyes. Some took to senseless drooling, others fainted to the soaked prairie ground. Their bodies seemed to burn, yet there was no fire. Th e pain of unspeakable beatings and torment raked their bodies. Th ey cried for mercy, but the serpent answered cruelly in a foreign tongue. This was the future in their mind’s eye. The season would end in a harvest of life.

Th e flying vision spoke to the people in their simple language. The gods grow tired with your vain and egotistical ways. You are self-serving. You starve your own people. You steal. You wash away your history in endless streams of indulgent leisure.

No! cried one of the priests, it is for the gods that we live and for our people which we serve!

At this the beast laughed. Serve your own kind you will, in an offering of carnage. You are at the mercy of the Seventh One.

The eyes of the serpent turned to Quexti. The old man’s son was born sickly and remained ill in health and mind. Born to be the Seventh High Priest as a direct descendant of Ixtal-Temi, seer of the gods, Quexti’s son was the antithesis of power and grace. His son was, in fact, completely unable to care for himself.

The serpent spoke directly to Quexti in a calm and motherly tone. "Your son. Your very