New Fanfiction: THE BLACK FLOWER: An Elena Duran Story 2/18
Vi Moreau (vmoreau@ADELPHIA.NET)
Fri, 2 Mar 2001 01:23:45 -0500
THE BLACK FLOWER: An Elena Duran Story 2/18
Chapter 2
November, 1642 anno domini
La Pampa Humeda, near Buenos Aires, in La Plata (Argentina)
Corazon Negro's memories ended. He looked toward the sun for direction. The
first prophecy of his teacher had been fulfilled; the last must also be. It
was Corazon Negro's task to make it so. In his mind, in his heart, he heard
the words again: <But you must go to the south, and you must find the black
flower that blooms in the wilderness there. You must not let it die ...>
"Yes, Father," he murmured. "I will follow my destiny ..."
In its zenith, the sun hits the earth with rage. The heat was almost
unbearable. The warrior drank from his deerhide waterskin. Looking around,
he saw a completely flat land, with only occasional solitary trees and a
herd of wild horses breaking the monotony. Corazon Negro tightened the
strings on his waterskin and kept walking.
**********
The sun's rays seemed to burn right through Mariaelena Duran's battered
brown leather hat and into her brain as she rode home with some of the
Indios* from a village on the western side of her father's rancho*. Wiping
her face with a handkerchief from her sleeve, she pulled back on her reins
again. Her Andalusian, a black by the name of Samson--better known to the
rancho* workers as El Monstruo--loved to run, and although the riders'
little criollos* could run for a night and a day without rest, they could
never hope to keep up in a race with Mariaelena's fiery stallion.
"I shouldn't have brought him," she told Paco. "I should have brought a
mare. Pura perhaps. Or Manita."
Paco Onioco, a horseman for most of his fifty years and the foreman of Don
Alvaro Duran y Agramonte's rancho*, shook his head in amusement--and
agreement . "A mare is not necessarily better, especially Pura, and a jaguar
would be more docile than this horse, Senorita Mariaelena. Why *did* you
bring El Monstruo?" he chided her.
Mariaelena had noted that, when not in the presence of her Spanish father,
Don Alvaro, the workers were much more familiar with her. She encouraged
it--up to a point. They knew she was the boss. She also knew Paco was right.
"He's not a monster. And he looked so forlorn in his stall; he just wants to
run ..."
"All horses love to run. But this one does more than just run," Paco
corrected her. "He also likes to bite. And to kick, to trample. But," he
added, "you have the gift with horses. They know that you love them."
She pulled back on the reins again, her arms throbbing. "I do love them. But
sometimes ..." She trailed off as the sensation of another of her kind
filled the back of her head, and at the same time one of the younger men,
Fulgencio, called out, "Look there! A man on foot."
Surprised, curious, and a little scared, she let her horse have his head,
and pulled the stallion up in a cloud of dust just short of trampling the
other Immortal.
**********
Corazon Negro stood calm and impassive, looking at her and immediately
recognizing the Immortal while her four men fanned out, surrounding him. <A
woman! Wonder of wonders!> Surely she would not attack him in the presence
of so many mortals, so Corazon Negro took his time to observe her, being
struck first by her eyes, a strange grey color, studying him suspiciously
from under the brim of a battered hat. Her lips were full and her dark
eyebrows were pushed together into a frown. She was dressed as a man, with a
white shirt, rolled up sleeves, and dark pants, and a Spanish sword at her
waist. She sat like a queen atop a large black horse who seemed eager to
stomp him--he could see the muscles in her forearms as she fought to hold
him. Young and lean, with the high cheekbones of an India*, she had long
black but curly hair, like a Spaniard, tied at the nape of her neck and
slung forward, reaching nearly to her waist. She was a mestiza*, then. Her
back was very straight, and he could see the pride in her.
The man was an Indio*, she thought, but she didn't recognize his threadbare
clothes or his colors. Tall for an Indio*, certainly taller than she was, he
had the typical high cheekbones, tawny skin and coarse, coal-black hair,
hanging loose to the middle of his back. He looked proud. He was covered in
the dust of the road, but otherwise looked probably cleaner than she did. He
carried a backpack, a skin canteen, and a jaguar case--that's probably where
his weapon was, as he wasn't wearing a sword. She looked more closely,
taking her time, studying him as he was studying her--there was what looked
like the end of a club sticking out of the top of his pack. That must be his
weapon. A club would not cut off a head, but it would certainly kill mortals
and Immortals alike. And Mariaelena had not the slightest doubt that this
man had killed, that he was a warrior. It was as clear on him as the blue of
the endless sky.
Now, to remain calm, and not let the stranger know she was anything but
confident and secure. "Are you lost, forastero*? You are on my property."
He didn't answer, so she added, "What is your name?"
His answer was almost incomprehensible; as near as she could figure it was,
"Yollohtlzin Tliltic." He was definitely not a local, not an Araucanian.
Maybe from one of the northern tribes, one she was not familiar with.
"Another unpronounceable name," she muttered, loud enough for the Indio* to
hear. One of her riders--it was Fulgencio again--snickered. She could not
allow rudeness to another Immortal--except from herself, of course--so she
silenced the young man with a reproving look, then turned back to the
Immortal, who at least understood Spanish. Her horse paced restlessly under
her. "Do you have a Spanish name?"
He shook his head. "No. The Spaniards never gave me one. But you can
translate my name as Corazon Negro. I am an Aztec."
"Very poetic," she said dryly. "Well, Black Heart," she said, understanding
the meaning of his name, "whoever you are, know this ...," she said firmly,
arching a dark brow. "I am Mariaelena Duran. And my father is Don Alvaro
Duran y Agramonte."
It struck her that he seemed surprised by her presence rather than by her
name. If he recognized her father's name, he was not going to let her know.
Of course, this was the only other Immortal she'd run across, and it might
be the same for him. But again he said nothing, so she pushed a little. "You
are still on my land, Corazon Negro. Where are you headed?"
If he was offended by her questions he didn't show it. "South," he answered
simply.
<South. So what?> Now here was the important question: "And in your long
travels, are you searching for others like you? Like us?" she asked him,
leaning forward in her saddle, vitally interested in his answer.
"No," Corazon Negro said, a glint of humor in his eyes. "I am searching for
something, but not for others like you and me. In fact, I never thought
there could be cihuatl* like me."
His amusement could be hiding contempt for her. "Be what?" Mariaelena asked,
shifting on her mount, her senses alert.
"Women," answered Corazon Negro. "No one never told me that this could be
possible."
Mariaelena leaned back slightly, and her horse shifted underneath her. She
smiled knowingly. "I see. You sound disappointed. Men are all the same," she
said, disappointed herself.
Corazon Negro studied her. "I'm not the same as all men," he suggested, "as
you well know." Then he said, "And you have Mapuche* blood."
Mariaelena's eyes narrowed. "And just how do you know--?" Then she realized
how he knew, as she saw his gaze fixed on the trariwe* around her waist, a
wide beaded belt worn by most Mapuche women. It was the only item of her
Mapuche mother's that she had left, her only physical remembrance, and her
hand went to it in a protective gesture.
"I've seen such clothing before, over the mountains," he replied.
Of course, why not? But now Mariaelena was getting impatient. She didn't
like the turn this conversation was taking. She was on her own land, and,
regardless of the foreigner's sharp eyes--and perhaps partly because of
them--she didn't trust him. "What do you want?" she asked bluntly.
"As I told you before, I'm looking for something."
Mariaelena moved her horse closer to Corazon Negro until the stallion was
practically breathing down on him. "Either tell me what you're looking for,"
she ordered, "or leave my land. Now."
Nodding, Corazon Negro pulled his backpack off and started to open it.
Mariaelena sat up stiffly on her horse, and her men prepared themselves.
"Cuidado, hombre*,*" Paco said angrily, reaching for the sharp knife, his
facon*, at his belt. Out of the corner of her eye, Mariaelena saw Fulgencio
reach down to grab the stock of the musket in his saddle.
But Mariaelena raised her hand, stopping her men, as Corazon Negro took a
skin plaque--not a weapon--out of his backpack and showed it to her. "What's
that?" she asked.
"What I'm looking for." The warrior reached up and, reverently, gave the
plaque to Mariaelena, who studied it for a while.
Frustrated, she finally asked him, "It's a symbol of a flower. What does it
mean?"
"It represents the black flower that blossoms in the prairie. That's what
I'm searching for."
Mariaelena stared at him for a moment, amused, because now she knew
something the Aztec didn't know. She handed him his plaque back and said,
"And when you find this black flower?"
But Fulgencio spoke up. "Black flower? Do you think he means you, Senorita?
Curi-Rayen?"
Mariaelena shook her head, a little angry that one of her men had given her
away. "It doesn't mean me," she said, studying the Immortal intently,
wondering if it did, indeed, mean her. The religion of her mother's people
was filled with omens, stories and prophesies. Maybe this man's religion
was, also. And in spite of the Catholic priests' vehement denials, who was
to say that there was absolutely no truth to any of it?
Corazon Negro had heard, and he reached for her reins with his free hand,
holding her in place. "Curi-Rayen?" he said, almost in awe. "You are the
black flower?"
Curi-Rayen. The last person who had called her by that name had been her
Mapuche mother, lying on a filthy pallet in their hut. Dying. Mariaelena had
been only four, but she clearly remembered her mother calling to her.
"Curi-Rayen, my little black flower. Don't forget ..." But Curi-Rayen had
been too young, and had never been sure what her mother hadn't wanted her to
forget. Her name? Or her mother herself? She hadn't forgotten either one.
And now, by what right was this Indio*, this stranger, calling her by that
name? And why was he was holding her reins? "That is my Mapuche name," she
said brusquely. "What about it?" she challenged him.
"I am fulfilling a prophecy from my father to find the black flower that
blooms in the prairie and protect it. With my life, if necessary," he said,
earnestly.
Mariaelena could tell how serious he was. Or pretended to be. Well, a
prophecy from what was an old Indio* wise man, probably an Immortal too, she
guessed, could really be significant--but no, she didn't believe in these
superstitions. And yet--
"I must come with you and protect you," Corazon Negro stated, calmly but
firmly. "It's my destiny, child; my duty."
He still hadn't released her horse, and she didn't like his calling her
"child." Even if, as she suspected, compared to him, she was a child. "I
don't believe in prophecies, and I don't need protection," she stated. "I
can take care of myself."
He smiled, and his teeth were very white in his dark face. "It is your
destiny, too, Curi-Rayen. Let me come with you."
"Why are you calling me Curi-Rayen?"
~~~~~~~~~~
June, 1614 anno domini
A Spanish farm near Buenos Aires, in La Plata (Argentina)
The kitchen feels warm, and Curi-Rayen crouches on the floor near her
mother, who is, as usual, stirring the dinner pot for Don Rafael and his
many guests--big loud men with hair on their faces who are always clutching
at the women servants and slaves. What her mother cooks always tastes
wonderful, but Curi-Rayen hardly ever gets a chance to taste it--except for
rare moments like now, when all the Spanish servants are out of the kitchen.
"Hurry, Curi-Rayen," her mother whispers, looking around her furtively.
Curi-Rayen smiles, knowing what's coming. Her empty stomach hurting and her
mouth watering at the same time, she stands to move closer to the fire.
Her mother spoons a piece of meat and some white roots into a small bowl.
"Take this outside and eat it, but make sure you're not seen by the whites."
The child nods, clutching the warm terracota bowl in her hands. The smell
almost overwhelms her--she desperately wants to put her face in the bowl,
right now, but she knows she has to wait, to hide.
"And don't burn yourself, Curi-Rayen," her mother always warns.
"Don't burn yourself ..."
~~~~~~~~~~
November, 1642 anno domini
La Pampa Humeda* near Buenos Aires, in La Plata (Argentina)
"... Curi-Rayen? That is your name, isn't it?" the Indio* was asking her.
<Well, yes it is, but ...> "I don't believe in destiny either," she stated,
and started to pull her horse's reins out of his grasp, but reconsidered.
Her immortal father had warned her that other Immortals might try to trick
her to get her head. To kill her, either in single combat or in a less
honorable way, and get her Quickening. And Mariaelena absolutely knew this
man was not a young, inexperienced Immortal like she was. He was
dangerous--and he could be dangerous to her. And yet, she couldn't help
believing that he really believed what he was saying. He hadn't just
invented this story--he had the plaque, and had told her all about it
*before* her name Black Flower had come up.
Unable to make up her mind about him, she decided her best choice was to
bring him with her, back to her father's rancho*, and let Don Alvaro decide
what to do with Corazon Negro. In any case, she had the idea that even if
she refused, the Aztec Immortal would follow her or find her anyway. He
certainly had traveled a long way, and she doubted that he'd give up his
"quest" just because she refused to go along with it. "Very well," she
agreed. "You can ride back with us behind Fulgencio--he's the smallest."
Corazon Negro nodded, released her reins, and went to the rider Mariaelena
had pointed out. He took Fulgencio's outstretched arm and swung himself
easily up behind the young rider's boat saddle. Shifting until he was
comfortable, he stated, "I'm ready."
Amused and fascinated, still curious and a little breathless, Mariaelena
spurred her horse for home, thinking, <I bet you are.>
Notes & translations:
The Mapuche were a tribe native to Peru, Chile and Argentina, part of the
greater group of tribes called collectively Araucanians. The Mapuche were
distinguished by being the last tribe to make peace with the Spanish
conquistadores, and the only tribe never to surrender, fighting against the
Spaniards for three centuries.
rancho (Spanish): ranch
forastero (Spanish): foreigner.
mestizo/a (Spanish): half-breed, half white and half Indian
Yollohtlzin Tliltic (Nahuatl): Black Heart. Name derived from two terms:
Yolloht: Heart; and Tliltic: Black thing.
trariwe (Mapuche): type of women's belt worn by Mapuche women
Cuidado, hombre (Spanish): careful, man
Curi-Rayen (Mapuche): name meaning black flower