The cool sunlight falls on Lake Patzcuaro, reflecting the shallow surface of the lake during the dry season and the reflection of reeds in the water. Along the shores of the Lake District, the Tarascan villages are lonely and desolate, and the fields are overgrown with weeds. Even though it is the beginning of the new year, there are no celebrating crowds in sight and no scent of rosy prayers. Only in the morning and evening, when the faint smoke rises, accompanied by the occasional barking of dogs, does it reveal a rare vitality.
Chihuaco, an old militiaman, stood blankly in front of a mud-brick hut, his body motionless and his eyes empty and dull.
It has been half a year since he was drafted and left his warm little home. In the past six months, he had participated in flaming water battles and experienced sieges with arrows raining down on them. He saw many nobles, easily broken like corn stalks; he also saw tens of thousands of warriors, stepping into the mud like leaves; and countless civilians, just like weeds in the wasteland, reduced to ashes in the flames of war. , scattered all over the sky without traces.
He escaped from the battlefield and was used to blood and tears. After experiencing the hardships of life and death, he finally returned to the village. However, he never thought, and never wanted to imagine, that in this cold little home, only the simple mud house remained.
He built the mud house with a handful of mud and a brick. He had saved materials for several years and spent a year. It can be called decent in the village. These fired mud bricks are the result of hard work day and night after he and his wife finished their hard work during the off-farm time. In this mud house, there used to be the busyness of his wife, the noise of his son, the laughter of his daughter, and everything he cherished.
At this moment, in front of the mud house, the wooden door is wide open, seeming to welcome the long-lost owner. Outside the house, the turkeys raised in the pen, the hairless domestic dogs in front of the house, and the peppers hanging from the eaves have all disappeared. Inside the house, a few belongings were scattered around, seeming to tell stories of past experiences. The clay pot for cooking rice was smashed to the ground, and the clay pot for water was completely overturned. All that was left of the hard-built grass bed was the thatch, and the corner where the grain was piled was already empty.
The old militiaman's mind was equally blank. He looked at everything in front of him with trembling eyes. The figures he was familiar with, the figures he expected, and the figures he loved were all left in his memories, as if his soul had been taken away, leaving only a lonely body.
Not far behind the old militiaman, Weziti looked at the empty hut, his face full of confusion and confusion. A group of seven militiamen poured into this desolate and dilapidated village, and the home in their memories was suddenly shattered. In this familiar yet strange place, they seem to be the only life.
Militiaman Yayuli glanced at the trembling crowd, scratched his head, and then continued to lower his body and dig hard into the soil. After returning to the village, he simply took a look at the empty thatched hut and started working without caring.
Yayuli is the youngest in the group and has just come of age. Although he usually follows people and talks about women and children, he is actually just a bachelor. His parents died young and he was not married. There was only one person in the family, and he was equally poor and did not even have a dagger. He didn't feel much about death and separation. This time when I went out to join the army, I was handed a spear, took off my clothes, picked up a dagger later, and came back covered in tears.
After a while, Yayuli finally threw out a torn sack from the soil, which contained a pile of dried corn. He grinned, casually went to another empty house to get a clay pot, and then scooped a jar of water from the nearby lake. While scooping water, Yayuli glanced at the lake. There seemed to be some small boats in the distance, with the shining light of bronze spears on them.
Yauli ignored it. He got a pile of thatch from the dilapidated house, and then started a bonfire at the cold fire pit in the center of the village. Then, he used the bronze spears of his companions to set up a clay pot and cooked old corn, and then continued to search in other houses to see if there was anything useful.
The curls of smoke rose, and the aroma of corn began to spread throughout the village. Yayuli found a bag of coarse salt and tasted it. The salty taste was a bit bitter. He didn’t know what was mixed in it. Maybe that’s what salt should taste like. Then, he walked to the pot, poked the corn with his dagger, and nodded with satisfaction.
"Uncle, you stupid idiots are all here to eat corn!"
Yayuli shouted happily to the other militiamen, but no one paid attention to him. He scratched his head again, then took a piece of corn by himself, and gnawed it with great effort, regardless of burning his mouth. Old corn is really hard to chew. From time to time, he would lick the salt grains poured into his palms. This was the most economical way to eat them. During the six months of the expedition, he saw that the warrior gentlemen could eat soft corn tortillas and smoked dried meat, and the noble gentlemen also had pure yellow honey and dark cocoa. He was really jealous in his heart, but he couldn't imagine what it felt like.
The aroma of food spread far away, and there was suddenly some movement in the village. An old man poked his head out of the dilapidated house, carefully looked at the copper spear holding the clay pot, and then looked at the man eating corn, and suddenly breathed a sigh of relief. The old man walked out quietly, looked around at the other people who were in a daze, and then grabbed the corn in the pot without paying attention to the hot water in the pot.
Hearing the noise, Yayuli, who was eating corn, stopped suddenly. He turned his head and saw the old man stealing corn. He recognized him for a moment and became furious.
"Old Yitong, how dare you steal my corn!"
After saying that, Yayuli stretched out his hand to snatch the food from the old man's hand.
Lao Yitong hunched over to dodge, stuffing corn into his mouth hurriedly, and shouted hesitantly.
"Little Yayuri, did you steal enough corn from me? Give me back one, I haven't eaten for a long time! ... By the way, is the war over? Are you the only ones back? My family's Where is Xiao Yitong?"
Hearing this, Yayuli suddenly stopped in his hands. He scratched his head, sighed, took two steps back, squatted in front of the pot, and didn't know what to say.
Seeing this scene, Lao Yitong stopped eating corn. He looked at Yauli and asked tremblingly.
"My little Yitong?...He..."
Yayuli remained silent for a while before nodding.
Lao Yitong took two steps back in disbelief. At this moment, all his strength seemed to be drained from him. The next moment, he suddenly looked at Chihuaco, the dull old militiaman, and staggered towards him. He was still holding the half-eaten corn tightly in his hands, as if holding on to the last hope.
"Chihuaco, where is my little Yitong? You are all back, where are the others?!"
Hearing the loud questioning, the old militiaman slowly turned around, as if awakened from a deep sleep. He opened his eyes and looked at the running old man, his expression gradually became distorted, and he suddenly burst out.
"Old Yitong, why are you still here, you old immortal! Where is my mother-in-law? Where is my son? Where is my daughter?! Where are they!"
Lao Yitong turned a deaf ear. He approached the old militiaman and just asked loudly.
"Where is my son?!"
"Your son is dead a long time ago! He was shot to death with an arrow and fell into the lake. Nothing was left behind. Even the body was fed to the crocodiles!"
Lao Yitong felt like he was struck by lightning. He stood there blankly, muttering to himself.
"Crocodile...crocodile..."
Chihuaco rushed forward with a strange light in his eyes. He grabbed the lapel of Lao Yitong's clothes, shook his skinny body vigorously, and shouted ferociously.
"Old man, where are my family members? Where is my son? Where is my daughter? Where is my mother-in-law?!"
Lao Yitong was awakened by violent shaking. He glanced at Chihuaco with a gloomy expression and said sadly.
"Chihuaco, your family is gone! Your son was taken away by the second batch of conscripts! Your daughter was sacrificed by the village chief to the samurai master! Your mother-in-law couldn't bear to think about it, and she drowned to death two months ago. The body is dead. No one has found it, I don’t know where it is, and no one is looking for it.”
Upon hearing this, Chihuaco's eyes widened, his body froze instantly, and two lines of thick tears silently fell from the corners of his eyes. Then, he gasped violently, trembled violently, and then roared violently.
"My mother-in-law is gone, she is gone, gone... Damn it! My son is only fifteen years old, and my daughter is only thirteen years old! I want to kill them!"
Then, the old militiaman's eyes flashed with murderous intent. He strangled Old Yitong's neck and asked sternly.
"You old man, where is the village chief?...I'm going to kill him! Kill him!!"
Lao Yitong looked at Chihuaco, who had never seen him before, in fear. He opened his mouth, but no sound came out. Seeing this, Chihuaco loosened his palm slightly and continued to stare fiercely.
"The village chief... he was taken away by the third batch of conscripts... Who knows where he is now, he might be dead."
Once again the old militia came to a standstill. There was confusion in his eyes, and he lost strength in his hands. After a while, he muttered to himself.
"They are all dead...Why don't you die? Why don't you die?..."
Lao Yitong twisted his neck hard and struggled out of Chihuaco's loosened palm. He took a few deep breaths, and when he heard the old militiaman's question, he thought he was talking about himself.
"The old man didn't like my old bones, so he spared my life. Besides, it's not certain that you will die if you are taken away. Your son and daughter may still be alive somewhere in the capital."
"How can they survive in this world if they don't understand anything!... No, no, you are right, they are not dead yet, I have to find them and bring them back!"
Having said this, the old militiaman's gloomy eyes once again became bright. He looked towards the capital city across the lake, which was his only hope and new goal. Then, he lowered his head, wiped the corners of his eyes with his sleeves, threw Lao Yitong aside, and headed for the firepit where the militiamen gathered. He was going to discuss it with his friends who would live and die together.
Lao Yitong stood alone in the corner. He slowly finished eating the corn, slowly squatted on the ground, and then slowly lay down in the mud, like an old yellow croaker out of the water. Then, he turned over with difficulty, buried his head in the soil, and cried softly.
Chihuaco, an old militiaman, gathered six companions. There was fire in his eyes and he said something loudly. Then, Wezti was the first to nod. The other militiamen stood stunned for a moment, then some nodded in agreement, while others shook their heads in disagreement, and everyone fell into a dispute. Little Yayuli didn't care where he was going. He looked at the lake not far away and suddenly discovered something.
"Look! Two boats are coming over there."
Two common canoes were leaning against the lake, with shields erected on them. They were obviously warships. A dozen Tarasco warriors jumped out of the warship, holding shining copper spears and solid wooden shields, and strode indifferently toward the village smoke.
"Where are you militiamen from?"
The leading warrior wears clothing with the hummingbird family crest. After returning from the battlefield, the militiamen already knew a lot. They were obviously samurai from a noble family.
Everyone looked at Chihuaco. The old militiaman lowered his head and was silent for a moment, rubbed his face with his hands, and then raised his head with a smile on his face. Then, he spoke respectfully using the accent he learned from the north.
"Sir, we are militiamen from the northern state of Sitacuaro! The Mexicans came too fast, and the northern gentlemen did not have time to resist, so many people fled... We were originally following a turkey family tattoo The great master went to the capital to guard the city. But the great master walked too fast and we couldn’t catch up, so we scattered here, looking for traces of him everywhere..."
The Hummingbird Warrior thought about Turkey's family crest, and it seemed that the fiefdom was indeed in the north. He looked at the bronze spears of the militiamen, then at the ages of these people, and nodded slowly.
"Don't go looking for your master! Now, on behalf of the chief minister, I announce that you have been recruited by Qincongcan City to serve the three sacred gods and the supreme royal family! Pack up, don't bring any sundries, and follow me now Get on the road!”
The old militiaman looked at the well-equipped warriors in front of him, and then at the other militiamen. At this moment, everyone nodded obediently. Everyone picked up their spears, followed the warriors onto the boat, and then headed to the "Land of Hummingbirds" by the lake, the capital city of Qin Congcan. Before leaving, Yayuli took one last look at the bag of corn he left behind, then looked at the figure in the corner, scratched his head again, and left with everyone.
The desolate village became quiet again, the bonfires flickered on and off, and there were only faint cries in the wind. After a while, the crying gradually stopped, and the unnoticed Lao Yitong got up from the ground. He wiped the dirt and tears from his face before bending his waist and shaking to pick up the remaining bag of corn. He grabbed the heavy corn bag tightly, then slowly came to the campfire, squatted down, and picked up the corn cobs that the militiamen had just discarded. Then, he gnawed at the corn residue covered with soil, as if gnawing away at the remaining hope, until nothing was left.
Chihuaco followed the hummingbird warriors as they rowed across the lonely lake. He looked at the blurry corpses floating in the water, but he couldn't find the face that had been with him all his life. He looked at the deserted island in the lake, and memories of the past came to his mind. During the dozens of New Years he spent, the lake was dotted with boats, and villagers came from all directions to trade local products and sing and dance on the small islands in the lake. The town's priests would occasionally come here to hold grand prayer ceremonies to praise the three gods who protected the Tarascans.
These rare joys from hard work, which he had shared with his family, turned into a trance at this time. Vague laughter comes from the memory, floating in the wind today, as if they are still around...
The breeze blew away the laughter and took away the figures, leaving only the desolation of the wind. There were only sparse patrol warships left on the lake. The samurai and militiamen clenched their weapons and stared nervously at the north. The Mexica scouts crossed the Huayamo Fortress and appeared on the edge of the lake area. The terrible army was not far away.
After only half a day's sailing, everyone arrived at the lake. Chihuaco woke up from his trance, and in front of him was the densely populated capital of the kingdom, Qincongcan City.
He looked at the magnificent city, the center of the mythical world. He looked at the towering walls, which were twice as strong as the fortress at the mouth of the river. He looked at the sacred "House of the Winds," a centuries-old pyramid complex where the priests lived. Finally, he looked at the majestic "Palace of Winds," the king's supreme palace and the core of the kingdom's rule.
The magnificent copper city stands beside the lake, unchanged for hundreds of years. This is the most prosperous place in the world in Chihuaco's heart, and it is also the last pursuit in his life.
