excerpt
I felt her quiver in my arms, and I knew she was crying, as
Apacuana and I led her great-grandparents up the trail to my cave.
I told Apacuana to stay with Urquía, Padumay and Matyba. Only
I could possibly prevent some of the bloodshed, so I ran back to the
village. There I recognized Pánfilo and Gregorio’s voices, and my
heart sank. A sudden incandescence illuminated everything.
Guacaipuro’s hut was ablaze.
Native bodies littered the ground around the hut, some dead,
some dying. I covered my face against the heat of the fire.
“Who is in charge? Stop! In the Name of God, stop!”
“Father?” came Gregorio’s voice. “I thought you were dead!”
“Who is in charge?”
“Infante, but he is up the hill.”
I looked in the direction in which he pointed his sword and ran,
but halfway up I heard Guacaipuro shout down the tumult outside
his hut.
“Coward Spaniards! Don’t have the guts to fight me and resort to
fire to defeat me. I am Guacaipuro, whom you seek, who never
feared your arrogant nation. Here I am, kill me, so that with my
death you can free yourselves of the fear you always had for
Guacaipuro.”
The Judas who had guided them to the village translated for the
Spaniards. No one moved. Guacaipuro stood, his chest heaving like
bellows feeding the fire of his rage, his golden eagle pendant
flashing in the firelight, his sword held high. His fierce eyes nailed
the invaders.
“Wait!” I blasted, hurrying down the slope as if the devil were
after me. Some heads turned at the sound of my voice, but the scene
exploded into action as the hut’s roof collapsed, sending angry
sparks into the night.
Guacaipuro advanced, deep lines cutting his forehead. He
delivered furious blows with his Spanish sword, his bare skin
gleaming with sweat amid the shiny armour of the killers.
Harquebuses flashed and thundered, filling the night with grey
smoke and the sharp smell of gunpowder.
Libros Libertad 