The massacre in the middle of the valley now ended. The Caniba reorganised and streamed up to where Matthias and a few Spaniards still maintained their futile defence. Matthias kept loading and firing his arbalest. As he did so, Caniba broke out from the trees on the left and right, engulfing Matthias and his small party in a ferocious hand-to-hand fight. Matthias, his back to a tree, sword and dagger in his hand, cut and thrust. His body was soaked in sweat, his arms ached yet he felt cold and composed. The fight seemed to represent his entire life but now he could see his enemy and give blow for blow, thrust for thrust. The air rang with the screams and groans of his dying companions. They had seen what had happened to the rest; no man wished to be taken alive.
Matthias noticed something extraordinary. The Caniba now surrounded him, a party of at least thirty, but he had received no wound, though they could have killed him easily. Time and again warriors came in, their fierce faces gaudily painted in red and white. They seemed more determined to disarm him than deliver any killing blow. Eventually, Matthias, by sheer power of numbers, was forced away from the tree. In one wild rush the Caniba surrounded him, catching at his arms and legs. Matthias lashed out. He felt a blow to his head: the branches of the palm tree above whirled and he lapsed into unconsciousness.
When he awoke, Matthias was lying in a small glade. A Caniba, his ferocious face daubed in war paint, was bathing the wound on his head, talking to him softly, though the words were guttural and harsh. Matthias tried to rise but others appeared and pressed him gently back on to the ground. Matthias stared to the left and right. Through the trees he could just about glimpse the valley, and saw Caniba warriors dragging away the dead. He sniffed the breeze, his stomach curdled, he caught the smell of woodsmoke and, beneath that, burning flesh, a sickly sweet odour. He stared up at the warrior.
‘Kill me!’ he whispered.
‘Canabo! Canabo!’ he said and thrust a finger into Matthias’ stomach. ‘Cacique Canabo!’
He narrowed his eyes and Matthias, despite the pain in his head, understood that he was to be taken to their chief, the cacique Canabo. The warrior allowed Matthias to drink from a calabash of water and threw the rest over his face. Matthias continued to lie there. Any attempt to turn over or get to his feet was gently but firmly repulsed. Looking around, Matthias saw the legs and feet of his captors. Now and again the Caniba came and stared down at him. Others arrived, chieftains by their gaudy, multicoloured headdresses and the necklaces of polished coral slung round their necks. Matthias was dragged to his feet and pushed back into the valley. He stopped in amazement: the valley floor was now thronged with the Caniba army. They were camped in small groups along the hillside. Of the Spaniards or their women, there was no sign. Every corpse had disappeared, all weapons had been collected. Only a splash of blood on the grass, a piece of clothing or scraps of armour bore witness to the desperate fight which had occurred there.
Matthias, his arms held gently by the Indian chieftains, was pushed along the edge of the brook. They passed a group of Caniba who were busy raping one of the Indian women they had captured. The woman had been gagged, her body stretched out on the ground and her conquerors were taking it in turns to kneel down between her outstretched legs. Again Matthias smelt the stench of burning flesh. He saw at the far end of the valley long columns of smoke rising from cooking fires. He thought the chieftains would be taking him there but, pulling him by the sleeve, they led him up a gentle slope into the jungle, along a path which led into a glade. All the weapons of Guitirres’ column were piled here: crossbows, swords, daggers, spears, armour, clothing, boots and war belts. At the far end of the glade, beneath the outspread branches of a palm tree, sat the cacique Canabo enthroned on a small, wooden chair. On either side of him, sitting cross-legged, were his chieftains. Matthias was pushed across and made to kneel before the cacique. Canabo was a young, thickset warrior. His face was long, sharp-nosed, with black, unblinking eyes: unlike the rest, who sat in ominous silence, he wore no war paint, and only a single white plume adorned his headdress. The tooth of some animal hung on a piece of cord round his neck, and on either side of his nose was a small nugget of gold on a pin.
‘Where are my companions?’ Matthias spoke in Spanish. ‘Why were we attacked?’
Canabo shifted in his seat. He stared at Matthias and smiled. The chieftain’s face relaxed, lips parted, his eyes, studying Matthias carefully, were now not so lifeless.
‘Are you really concerned about them, Creatura bona atque parva?’ The cacique spoke in Spanish. ‘What are they to you, Matthias?’ Now he spoke in English.
Matthias heard gasps from the chieftains around him. They gazed in wonderment at their leader, who could not only defeat the ‘men from Heaven’ in open battle but even speak their tongue. Canabo got up. Like the rest, he was naked except for a loin cloth around his waist. He lowered his firm muscular body down, sitting cross-legged, indicating that Matthias do the same. The chieftains watched solemnly. They could not understand their cacique showing such honour to a defeated man but, over the past few weeks, they had been astonished by the transformation in their leader and if he wanted the life of this white man, then so be it. Matthias settled himself. Canabo issued an order. A small gourd was thrust into Matthias’ hand.
‘Drink, Matthias,’ Canabo ordered. ‘We took it from Guitirres’ body.’
Matthias tasted the wine. It was delicious, cleaning his mouth and throat, warming his belly. Canabo accepted a similar gourd and sipped at it carefully, his eyes never leaving Matthias.
‘So, we have come to this, Matthias.’ He took the gourd from his lips. ‘You have come a long way.’
‘Why?’ Matthias asked. ‘Why have you pursued me? Who are you?’
‘I am the Rosifer,’ Canabo answered. ‘Pure spirit, intelligence and will.’ His eyes took on a faraway look, reminding Matthias of the hermit sitting in the church at Tenebral. ‘Before the world ever began, Matthias,’ Canabo continued, ‘before matter came into being, only the angels existed. Only they occupied Paradise and looked upon the face of God. That was in the beginning. Aye, Lucifer, Michael, Gabriel and Raphael, all of us archangels and leaders of the heavenly hosts. Then a new creation was planned.’ He paused and smiled. ‘I am going to use the language of your books because the human heart does not comprehend the beauty that once existed. God created His own image in flesh. We were to serve these and then the divine plan unfolded. God Himself intended to take flesh and become one of His creation. In Himself, all that was created, both visible and invisible, would become one. Lucifer and others rebelled at this, withdrew from Heaven and created their own.’
‘And you fell with him?’ Matthias asked.
‘What I did is not contained in your books.’ The answer was short and terse. ‘But I saw the divine plan: to create flesh and to love that flesh.’ His voice fell to a whisper. ‘To create another being, Matthias! To be like God, that was my dream!’ Canabo stopped and closed his eyes. ‘In Eve that dream became a hunger, a lasting ambition, to fall in love with this image of God in flesh, to beget through her other images of the divine.’ Canabo plucked a blade of grass and held it up between his fingers. ‘I, the Rosebearer, God’s own gardener, the keeper of Paradise. I took my ambition in the form of a rose and offered it to Eve, to seduce her, to give her powers so that she and I would be one.’ Canabo opened his eyes and stared up through the interlacing branches at the sky. ‘That was my sin,’ he declared. ‘Not one of rebellion but one of love as well as ambition. When Eve fell, I fell with her through time and space.’ He let the grass fall from his fingers. ‘God has offered me eternal pardon and I eternally refuse. I love the daughters of men and my desire to be with them, to be one, to create is an eternal hunger.’ Canabo paused and sipped from the wine gourd. ‘I wish to be like God,’ he whispered. ‘To become incarnate in flesh.’