The Death of Kuvé Hwanuk

Accustomed as we are to cell phones, CNN, video games, it is difficult for us to conceive that, in one of the most remote regions, in the 18th century, José Hwanuk considered himself a relatively fortunate and modern person. Educated as a neophyte at the Nuestra Señora de Los Dolores Mission in the Northern Territory, he had surpassed the expectations of the friars. He had become a skilled worker. To such a degree that, overcoming the reluctance of his advisors, Father Granados himself had taught him to read and write. All reluctance quickly faded when Hwanuk was able to interpret instructions for repairing carriages, water pumps and roofs.

The only shadow in Joseph's life was the illness of his wife Datemba. For some time now she was slowly wasting away, fading without losing her beauty, like the Californian sunsets that we can still see today. When she finally gave out, Joseph fell into a deep depression. He himself did not realize how much he missed her presence, her voice, in the increasingly less frequent periods of lucidity that she had. Datemba reproached him, half jokingly, half seriously, for moving away from Guaycurí traditions and language. In her last days, she consoled him by saying that they would eventually find themselves in the Land of the Dead, where warriors covered themselves in glory by hunting insects, since everything is the other way around.

— “The dead, Cuvé,”—she refused to use her husband's Christian name—“can't see well when it's daylight, so look for them in the dark. And I don't want you to despair: when they say 'days', they are actually mean 'years'.”

José nodded to humor her. He had stopped believing in all those images a long time ago, since he discovered that they were as arbitrary and absurd as that of a god tortured by men on a cross, or that of a distant viceroy capable of alleviating poverty.

—“But they have to do it, Cuvé, don't you realize?…” —Datemba came out to breathe consciousness every two or three minutes, and uttered phrases like that. They had argued in the past about the Pericú uprising in 1734. José considered it stupid to confront the overwhelming Spanish firepower. Have you seen an F-18 fly at an air show? Well, that's what José felt about muskets and gunpowder.

And now, his companion was gone. José spent his days trying to drown the emptiness of his absence with work, with reading, with walks. The strangest thing of all was when he dreamed of her:

— “But you are dead, Datemba!” —He exclaimed, after having talked with her for hours—“What are you doing here?”

— “I came just for a few seconds,” she answered, “to pull your feet. Be careful with the rock.”

— “Which rock, woman?” —He asked, but she had disappeared.

He saw a rock, indeed, balancing precariously on a natural platform. Behind, a river reflected the evening lights on its turbulent surface. José felt like cooling off, but as he passed by the rock it fell on him and crushed him.

The dream was repeated frequently. Actually, it seemed to repeat itself, but it always had some variants:

— “Datemba, you can't be at this dinner: you're dead!”

— “I just came for a second, to tell you that I no longer believe in the Shaman Arudovichi.”

— “I have never believed him. She could never stop the storms. The rain she called came three years later and yet he took the credit.”

— “Listen, Cuvé” —she said, as all wives of all times do, when their children or their husbands start to ramble:

— “Sheathed in his hair cape, Arudovichi took a cord, painted it red, and stretched it around Uriguai. He said that the Spanish would die as soon as they touched the rope. The Urigüís danced and sang all night with their women and children when they heard that the troops were approaching.”

José did not want to interrupt her, although he already knew how the story was going to end.

— “The soldiers arrived. The Urigüís singing and dancing with their women and children, Cuvé. The soldiers ran over the cordon, and no soldier fell, Cuvé. They placed their knees on the cordon while they fired, and no soldier was struck down. Only the Urigüís, their women and children, Cuvé, fell. That is why I no longer believe in Arudovichi.”

José was very tired. The trip had been very long. Around him, on the floor hut floor, the bow and arrows had been deposited next to the cylindrical basketwork armor. Datemba continued:

— “But I believe in arrows, Cuvé. The cord and Arudovichi's powers did not kill the soldiers, but the arrows did. Arrows and spears. “I do believe in that.”

José did not remember putting the arrows there. He did not remember ever wearing cylindrical basketwork armor, nor a plume of shells and feathers, but he put them on as if he had never done anything else in his life. Callejú and Pericú voices could be heard in the distance. The orders in Guaycura, less intense than the screams of women and children, outlined the battle plan. The uniform rhythm of the trained steps of the warriors could be heard in the background of the staggered runs of those who could flee.

Little by little he became convinced that there was no way to avoid the test, and that the result would not depend on what he did or did not do. He decided to go out and cross the line, if he could. If not, everything was going to end there. A strange calm invaded his body. Nothing worse could happen to him. José never imagined that that was courage. He took up the spear. He passed the door, and began to run through the yard. The shouts of the soldiers could be heard so far away —he thought— the smoke, the smell of gunpowder, the screams of the wounded...

José forced himself to keep an accounting of what he was seeing; He was convinced that it was the real battle.

It did not matter. He continued running. One step after another. He was sure that shrapnel was going to hit him, that a terrible wound was going to tear his body and make him howl like the poor devils he saw lying on the ground.

It was as if he were operating another body by remote control. As if many, many kilometers away, a battle was taking place that had nothing to do with him. As if our reality TV dream had come true four centuries ago, and José was comfortably sitting in his house manipulating the PlayStation controls and directing the steps of a character who was him but was not him.

He was hardly surprised when he was hit by shrapnel from the harquebus. With dim curiosity he saw the blood running down his abdomen. He didn't even try to fix the strange angle at which his legs had been left. As if the body that was beginning to tremble uncontrollably belonged to another. As if someone else, not him, was emitting the screams he heard coming from his throat. It couldn't be him, no:

He was walking along the path that went into the bushes. He already saw the rock swinging on top of the platform. José continued walking. He passed the rock, which he continued to sway menacingly. He arrived at the river. He crossed it without stopping to consider its depth or the intensity of the current.

It was getting dark and, on the other side, the hunters were stalking their prey:

— “Deer, deer!” —they whispered to each other, surrounding a small group of black beetles.

José knew he had arrived when night finally fell, and he could see clearly: the valley, his parents, his grandparents, the ancestors who brought basketry work from Sonora to Tiburón Island, their ancestors: hocaltecas with news from the Mexican highlands and, in the distance, Datemba's swaying waist, a moment before she turned to see him.