excerpt
“How can you do this?” She said, breathing hard, with bitter
contempt. I felt that I had her pinned with a spear against a wall.
“Urquía and Matyba were right. They warned me. You are a white
man, and I’m just an Indian. I was foolish to believe You.”
She fought to keep her dignity. She stood up. “I will take herbs to
kill your spirit in me. That way You will not have to return here.
That way I will never have to see you again.”
“You mustn’t! That would be an even greater sin. Please, if you
love me at all, please, please, Apacuana. I beg you . . . you cannot do
that. You cannot kill the life that might be inside you.”
“But you can? You are killing me right here.”
Her voice broke as tears filled her eyes and the corners of her
mouth drooped. I felt my determination falter; my voice was thick
with unshed tears.
“I’m sorry. Were I not a man of God, I’d be with you until the
moon falls from the heaven, but I can’t. I’m sorry, so sorry.”
“The Spanish kill with the sword,” she said. “And the Spanish kill
with the word.”
And so she left, in sorrow and anger. I saw her slowly walk away
and disappear into the jungle. I remembered how sick I had felt
during the storm, as we crossed the ocean, locked in the bowels of
the ship, breathing the suffocating air, and this felt much worse.
Despite the miles of lush, green hills stretching before me, I felt I
could not breathe. The pain was choking me.
God, how I hated You that day.
Manolis Aligizakis 