IV.
Viracocha.
Fray Fernando soon became aware that he had taken upon himself a troublesome charge. The little Indian was gentle and docile, and he did not show the slightest inclination to run away. But his attachment to his benefactor took a turn that was both inconvenient and embarrassing. Fray Fernando of course intended to instruct him; but supposed that when his short daily lesson was over, he would be content to run about the galpon and to play with the negro children. But he soon found that the dusky Indian looked on the black Africans with contempt and aversion. Whenever Fray Fernando gave him dried fruit or huminta,[1] he called the little negroes about him, and shared his treasures very liberally; but that done, he walked quietly away from them, and established himself on his mat at the feet of his protector. Often he sat or lay there for hours, perfectly quiet and silent. But sometimes he talked to himself, or sang very sweet and mournful songs in his native tongue; and two or three times he positively frightened Fray Fernando by sudden bursts of passionate weeping. On these occasions he would throw himself on the ground, wailing and sobbing without restraint, and often repeating, in tones of the most heart-rending sorrow, “Ay, mamallay! ay, mamallay!” And by that cry Fray Fernando knew that the orphan child was in bitterness, mourning for his mother. But as soon as the paroxysm was over, he would resume the grave and mournful silence that seemed so unnatural in a child. Fray Fernando began to fear that he might pine away and die; and was but partially reassured by Diego, who knew something of the Indians, and told him that grave silent ways were characteristic of the race.
José, as he was now called, could by no means be induced to sleep anywhere except in his patron’s cell. Sometimes Fray Fernando, to whom the practice was not at all agreeable, positively refused him admittance, having first provided another resting-place for him. But in the morning he was sure to find him, no matter how great the cold might be (and he was very sensitive to cold), lying crouched at his door. Except in this one matter, he was always obedient to his protector. He learned quickly to understand what was said to him in Spanish, but was slow in attempting to speak it; whether from want of ability or want of inclination his instructor could not tell. From certain observances that he practised occasionally—such as kissing the air and looking towards the sun, at the time of its rising and setting—Fray Fernando gathered that he had been taught to worship that luminary. By way of antidote, he brought him regularly to chapel, and instructed him carefully in the ceremonies proper to the place.
The first question volunteered by his little pupil gave the monk as keen a sensation of pleasure as the sight of the first flower of spring after the rains and frosts of winter. One day he brought the boy, who had now been several months under his care, to see the mine. He looked at everything, in his quiet, grave, intelligent way, as if he understood it perfectly. But as they were returning he asked suddenly, “Patre” (so he always pronounced padre, the first Spanish word he learned)[2]—“patre, how did the gold get so far down into the ground?”
“God made it there, my son,” said Fray Fernando.
“Yachani—I know. Pacha-camac made everything,” the child returned, bowing low at the mention of the great Name, then slowly raising his open hands to Heaven, in token of adoration. “But the gold is the tears of Ynty.”
“Who is Ynty?” asked the monk.
With a reverent gesture the child pointed upwards to the object of his race’s homage, the glorious Sun.
“God made Ynty, and he is His servant,” said Fray Fernando, not unwisely, in reply.
“Yachani—I know,” José answered quietly.
Some time after this little incident, the Indians from the valley came as usual with their tribute. On these occasions José’s faculty of speech never failed to return to him; he chattered Quichua with his brethren as long as they might be permitted to remain together. Fray Fernando liked to see him awakened, even for a time, from his unchildlike languor and listlessness; he therefore rather encouraged his intercourse with the other Indians.
Bitterly did he regret this indulgence afterwards. A virulent fever was laying waste the valleys, counting its victims by thousands amongst a people healthy and long-lived under favourable conditions, but deficient in strength, and with constitutions easily shattered by disease or hardship. Ere the next morning’s dawn José was tossing on his mat, freezing and burning, speaking strange words in Quichua, and moaning piteously for his mother.
Fray Fernando was greatly distressed for the child. Moreover, he was alarmed, not without cause, for the health of the rest of the colony. He determined to attend the sick boy himself, and to allow no one else to approach him. Even setting aside the danger of infection, he could not trust him to the care of the negro women, who, though kind-hearted enough, were very ignorant and stupid.
His knowledge of medicine was very limited, and he had little at command. The Indians were indeed well acquainted with the healing virtues of many of their plants, and used them with considerable skill and intelligence; but Fray Fernando had no means of communication with them. All that common sense and tender kindness could suggest, he did for his patient; the rest he was obliged to leave to nature.
Soon it appeared as though the little life, watched with such interest for well-nigh a whole year, was ebbing fast away. This did not surprise, though it grieved him. The child had been pining ever since he came to him. The slightest strain would suffice to break the slender thread. And as he sat and watched beside him through the long dark hours of the night (in that equatorial region nearly equal to the day), he thought within himself how much he should miss and mourn him. Truly the orphan had given back sevenfold the benefit received. He had made his days less dreary, less miserable, and his nights far less terrible. Whither now had vanished those visions of horror that were wont to haunt him through the sleepless hours of darkness? José’s presence had dispelled them, as the sun dispels the shadows of the night. Fray Fernando, as yet, did not fully understand from what he had thus been saved; but he felt as though the mists of a dark dread which had overhung his life were gradually clearing away—he hoped for ever.
But now it seemed as if he must part with his treasure, and return to his former lonely, desolate state. The fever having run its course, the little patient lay, weak and helpless, with the look of one whose life is fading. Hoping against hope, he administered, continually and in smallest quantities, the strongest stimulant, the sora of the Indians. Anxious hours passed away with little change, yet with no visible decrease of strength. A long, weary night followed, during which Fray Fernando found it hard to tell whether José slept or waked, or lay in stupor, unconscious of all around.
At length day appeared. The sun rose suddenly, as it does in those tropical lands. José moved, looked at Fray Fernando, and smiled. He drank the cordial held to his lips, then feebly whispered something. Fray Fernando bent over him to listen. “I want to see my Father’s face,” he repeated more distinctly.
Fray Fernando feared the mind was wandering still. “My poor child,” he said, “your father is dead—long since.”
“My Father never dies,” the child responded, with a look half of surprise, half of reproach. “Don’t you know him?—Ynty the Glorious!” he added, speaking with more energy than Fray Fernando thought him capable of showing.
“When my child is better,” he replied evasively, “he shall go forth and see the sunshine.”
But José was not satisfied; and again, after a little pause, he pleaded, “Let me see my Father’s face, good patre.”
Fray Fernando, with new and suddenly awakened interest, now ventured to put a question to his child. “Does my little José then claim kindred with the princes of his people—the Incas—the Children of the Sun?” For even the haughty Spanish conquerors could not withhold the tribute of their reverence from the truly royal line they had so cruelly despoiled.
“I am Viracocha Yntip Churi, in Spanish talk, Viracocha—Child of the Sun,” the boy replied.
Then Fray Fernando wrapped him gently in the soft warm skins of the vicuña, carried him tenderly out, and laid him in the sunshine.
When brought back to his couch again, the tired child whispered, “My Father kissed me;” and fell into the soundest and most natural sleep he had had since his illness.