Preface
The story of Inkle and Yarico, as originally recorded in Richard Ligon’s 1673 book, A True and Exact History of Barbados, was taken and embellished by Richard Steele, a writer for The Spectator, and published on March 13th, 1711. This publication fed social conversations and debates on many heated topics including slavery, colonialism, and women’s rights. The innocent Yarico in chains and the triumph of the barbarous Inkle as central facets of the plot make the story applicable in a wide variety of settings and conversations. It is for this reason that I envisioned it within Latinx discussions as well—as the Mesoamerican communities were also destroyed by colonialism and the institution of slavery that accompanied it. In Steele’s version of the narrative, Inkle’s crew detours to the “Main of America” for water and supplies, and encounters Native Americans of whom Yarico is a part. In my version, I have Inkle’s ship wreck on the Yucatán Peninsula so that the story can take place in Latinx territory among the Itza Mayan people. Apart from the external frame of the Inkle and Yarico story, the names, deities, and history regarding the Itza people depicted in my narrative are accurate, and were contemporaneous to the time that the alleged ‘Mr. Inkle’ would have made his journey to the Americas (1647). I obtained the majority of this historical information from The Great Courses series titled, “Maya to Aztec: Ancient Mesoamerica Revealed”—very informative lectures!
My entire narrative is recounted by an omniscient narrator; however, it shifts between emphasizing the different perspectives both of Inkle and of Yarico. The first two segments of the text are told with emphasis on Inkle’s perspective. I designed this as a means of developing his character; trying to demonstrate that there is complexity in his emotions and decisions. The rest of the story, however, is devoted to Yarico’s perspective whose thoughts, emotions, and actions are central to the significance of the story in its original form and in my interpretation of it. I decided not to include any verbal dialogue between Inkle and Yarico to emphasize the natural linguistic barrier between them through which they developed their own form of communication; gestures, facial expressions, and laughter. While I detail Yarico’s thoughts through the English language, I didn’t want to depict her speech, as I hope readers will be able to imagine her Mayan language and dialect on their own without any English linguistic interference.
There are a few symbols I inserted into the text. The Kos falcon is a bird native to the Yucatán Peninsula. I found it fascinating that it’s call sounds like laughter, and moreover that within this species, the female is larger and stronger than the male. I wanted this bird to be a symbol of feminine strength, both internally and physically, which I believe the character of Yarico embodies. It appears as an oracle sent by her father’s spirit—a mighty Mayan warrior who had been killed by Spaniards years before. His character is a real historical figure. I took the liberty of connecting him to Yarico to create depth and complexity within the Mesoamerican setting of the narrative. I hoped to convey a message through the bird that Yarico possesses all of her father’s strength and more; that perhaps she will endure more than her father had to within her lifetime, but that she has within her the strength to do so. In English the bird is called a “Laughing Falcon,” but in the Maya language it is “Kos.” Similarly, ‘peck mushrooms,’ referenced during Yarico’s moment of intimacy with Inkle, are also native to the Yucatán Peninsula and are lethal if ingested. In Guatemala, they are commonly referred to as the “destroying angel,” white and soft, but deadly. I wanted to use this imagery to foreshadow Inkle’s betrayal, the revelation of his true character.
Overall, my intent for this story is to situate the longstanding conversation of Inkle and Yarico within a Latinx framework, so as to address the similar ways in which Mesoamerica was affected by colonization and slavery. I also hope that by providing more space for Yarico’s perspecive—her thoughts actions, and responses—that this story works to counter the manner in which she has been objectified and analyzed over the centuries as subject matter for public disputes and entertainment (there was a nineteenth-century comedic opera based on her story). I hope that rather than furthering such actions, this story will serve to elevate her character to a place of respectable, dignified, and exemplary humanity, of which I believe she is very much representative.
Yarico
In the year 1647, when the war-torn England paused its four-year civil dispute for a moment of calm—a moment to gather up shattered pieces, rehabilitate broken bodies, and reorient battle stratagems—and when evidence of summer’s youthful bloom began again its emergent cycle, speckling England’s blood-steeped fields with vibrant, cheerful colors; a young man of the Cavalier society made a decision—one which he had been disputing internally for many months—to leave his country and seek a fortune in the new world. Born of wealthy and influential parentage in London, he had been brought up with an empirical understanding of both the advantages and the prerequisites of building and maintaining socio-economic success. Thus, with the blessing of his parents, he signed a contract, joining himself to the vessel and equally-ambitious crew of the Caribbean-bound, Achilles. The ship set sail on June 16th, leaving behind three more impending years of social upheaval and war in England. Glancing back at the shrinking landmass, Thomas Inkle—as the young man was called—watched his country dissipate into the rippling glow of the horizon.
After several months on the open sea, the ship’s captain, noting that they were soon to expend their last supply of fresh water and sustenance, detoured and temporarily docked the vessel at San Cristóbal de la Habana on the island of Cuba. There, the crew restocked the ship with supplies intended to last through the final and short journey south to Barbados, for which they departed the following day. Yet, the men never arrived at their destination; for, on the second night of their journey, they were caught in a tremendous gale, steering them off course and wrecking their ship on the southwest shores of the Yucatán Peninsula—land of the Itza Mayans, the longstanding resisters of European invasion, enemies of all those associated with the Spanish empire and the western world it represented.
~~~ * ~~~
“By Jove, man, give me your hand!” Thomas Inkle shouted and stretched his arm down the rocky ledge dividing himself from his companion caught halfway in the surging waters and clinging to the slippery surface of the rocks upon which their ship had been dashed. Many of the men were lost at sea when the tempest first erupted, lifting and thrashing heavy waves upon the deck—waves that impartially stole souls and cargo with them as they dispersed over the sides of the ship. There were only a few left when the vessel hit the rocks, and as far as Inkle could presently tell, he and this man for whom he reached were the only survivors.
“Now, sir, your hand—the waves! They’re only getting stronger!” Inkle worked to lift his voice over the roar of the sea and wind around him. The clinging man let out a loud cry as, in one instant moment, he hoisted himself with all his might, extending his hand just far enough for Inkle to grasp it hard and tight; so tight that a pain went surging through his arm as Inkle heaved him onto the high ground upon which Inkle had so fortunately been thrown himself. The two men lay there for a long moment, breathing heavily and allowing themselves to sink with gratitude into the solid, drenched ground that had been the means of their salvation.
It wasn’t until many hours later, when the wind and the waves had almost entirely calmed, when the sun was just beginning to paint the sky with morning hues, and when the tremors in each man’s nerves from so narrowly escaping death had subsided, that the distress and vulnerability of their present situation became unavoidably apparent. Inkle scanned the shoreline for movement, for something indicative of life, safety and hope. Despite the sinking feeling within his heart at the sight of nothing but wilderness, nothing but the cruel, vast expansion of nature void of civilization, he could not help but notice beauty in the landscape, like he had never seen before. The sands which lined the shore were as white as the fine china from which he was accustomed to eat; the water as blue as her majesty’s crystals, and the open sky its mirror. Directing his gaze toward the forest, he watched the exotic foliage quiver in the, now, gentle breeze that encompassed him too. There was something about this land, this place and this moment—something terrible yet sacred.
“Oy, friends!” Startled from their separate thoughts, Inkle and his companion turned to see more crew members—at least ten more survivors from the wreck—waving and beckoning them to join their group in the distant shade. Relief swept over both men and they eagerly complied, glancing at each other before running with shaking limbs to the safety of familiarity and greater numbers.
“We must venture inland.” the first mate pointed to an apparent opening on the other side of the shore, a natural path into the forest which he explained could lead to freshwater pools or rivers. “There is nothing for us out here. Our ship is lost, and it is unlikely another will pass by this deserted place at any point in our near future. We will certainly die if we do not find sustenance soon.” With the men in accord, they followed their new leader to the opening of the forest and onto, what appeared to be, a frequently treaded path—made by animals, from the first mate’s estimation—which they pursued for several hours. Inkle, increasingly captivated by the novelty of all he beheld, found himself at the rear of the group, and frequently falling several paces behind as he would often stop to closely examine the objects of his wonderment.
“Stay close, Inkle! This is not a friendly place.” One companion shouted, his face grim and tarnished with fear. “I’ve heard stories of a vicious people that not even the Spanish armies could break into submission—bodies dismembered, heads on steaks, hearts torn from their living masters.” Inkle shivered and moved close to the speaker, nodding once and catching his gaze in a mutual, sober acknowledgment. But after some time had passed, he again became distracted and enraptured by his surroundings. He spotted a fascinating specimen growing as a vine would across the forest floor and budding vibrant purple flowers. A deep sensation vibrated through his body, and he knew in some way he was powerless, captive to this gentle and mysterious pull. As he stooped to observe the delicate parts, an alarming and foreign sound arose from the far side of the winding, vacant path before him. Immediately Inkle realized the crew had gone quite ahead of him, and upon hearing their distant cries of distress and retreat, he too began to run. Yet he did not run back along the path, but cut away from it, crushing the purple flowers as he went, and thrusting himself into the dense vegetation of the rainforest. He navigated swiftly past thick vines, broad leaves and tree trunks until he arrived at small hill covered in moss and directly adjacent to a jagged rock formation. Positioning himself in a crevice formed by their junction, Inkle slowed his breath, laid his head down on the mossy surface and, succumbing to the fear and exertion of his experiences, felt his body go limp and fall into darkness.
~~~ * ~~~
O how Chaak was angry last night. Yarico treaded lightly through the forest, jumping from one dry spot to another, avoiding the muddy remnants of the rain god’s provisional fury that had struck the land in the night. She was grateful for his gift of water, life and sustenance, but she knew it came at a price. She, too, had prayed fervently for his provision, and although the blasts of his great ax striking the clouds never ceased to instill fear within her heart, she felt comfort in knowing that he heard the cries of his people and cared enough to respond. There was both terror and beauty in this divine land, but she knew her place within its sacred balance.
As she ran, she felt the pulse of the living earth beneath her feet; she breathed deeply and welcomed its presence. She had heard Kan Ek’s warriors had captured a band of light-skinned invaders in the early morning. It made her uneasy to know they were coming back, trying to destroy the life she knew and loved so much—the land, the lake Peten Iza, the people. After her father, the great war leader Ajk’in P’ol, was killed over twenty years ago by their metallic warriors, it has never been the same for the Itza people. He surrendered his life to keep this land at peace, to keep them away—and it had worked. Until this morning. Although the warriors had extinguished the lives of this morning’s invaders to protect the people, there was something about the manner in which they did it that troubled her spirit. She knew their heads would be staked around the lake for many days, as her father’s was in the camp of the enemy. The thought of the lifeless, pale faces haunted her imagination. This was why she ran: to seek the spirits of the forest, to ask for answers, to beg her father—that brave warrior she never knew—for strength.
Yarico arrived at her favorite place in the forest, as remote as she could be. She was safe, she knew—she could feel it in her spirit. She laid down on the mossy hill, the sunlight reaching through the treetops and falling on the ground around her. The rays inspirited the colors of the forest and she blinked at their heavenly source for a moment before shutting her eyes and quieting herself to listen and pray. Thank you, K’inich Ahau, for shining your warm face upon us every day. Thank you, Chaak, for sending us rain and filling our land with fresh life. Thank you, Hunal Yeh, for nurturing our bodies with your sustenance. Itzamna, I ask that you will allow me to commune with my father, your worthy servant, Ajk’in P’ol. I have great need of him now. She was still for a long time, listening intently. In the trees directly above her, she heard the Kos call out—that unmistakable falcon, laughing as it always does, as her father did. It was his animal spirit, the shaman had told her years ago. Opening her eyes, she caught its gaze and watched as it lifted itself off a low branch, up through the treetops, and into the open sky. It was female. The Kos falcon—one of the only creatures of this earth whose grown female is larger in body and might than its male counterpart. She closed her eyes and smiled—Thank you, father.
Just then, she heard a low groan and movement on the other side of the hill, near the rock. She reacted quickly, picked up a dense stick nearby, and leapt toward the noise. She reached it just in time to witness a light-skinned man emerging from the mouth of the earth, weary and battered with scrapes and colored bruises on his face. He, too, was startled and stepped back, reaching instinctually at the empty sheath strapped to his left hip. When he realized he had no weapon and no strength to restrain even a woman’s blow, he looked into her eyes with despair. She looked at his too, her arms still holding the stick above her head and ready to strike. But a moment passed in which neither spoke nor moved. She slowly lowered her arms until the weapon was at her side. And she continued to look into his eyes—dark, and brown like hers; his hair too, but it curled and rippled atop his head and about his face. Her expression softened. He looked fearful, not vile and gruesome. There was something about him. He fell down on one knee, joined swiftly by the other, and muttered something she did not understand, but she caught genuineness in his tone and in his expression. Immediately she determined this was not accidental, it was a design ordained by the gods, and established by the earth which sheltered him until her arrival. She would not tell the others of his presence here, but conceal him. She would not harm, but heal him and restore him to his native land.
Yarico let the stick fall beside her. She stepped two paces toward the man and stretched her hand out to him; he matched her hesitant movement with his own hand until the tips of their fingers brushed. His were cold. She stood and drew nearer, keeping her hand extended while directing her other hand outward. She looked down at the man, then up toward her outstretched arm, urgency flashing in her eyes, and repeated the motion until he appeared to understand. He lowered his head for a moment, then without looking up, grasped her hand, and she pulled him to his feet with a strong, steady movement. With her grasp, she led him out of the sun-patched haven, and into the dense outskirts of the rainforest. Itzamna, Father, please guide us to safety.
~~~ * ~~~
As the autumn months passed, Yarico spent many hours tending to the man, whom she learned to call In’kl—the sounds he so frequently uttered. She had stumbled upon a cave as they wandered together that first day; one perfect for his evasion, and not far from the place where they met—the place she had always loved, and was growing to love even more through its new association. The man seemed very pleased with her, with his situation, and with the wonders of the land. When coming to bring food or healing plants, she would often find him out of his cave, on his knees, and marveling at the smallest productions of the earth. Other times he would lie on his back on the forest floor, watching the light glow vibrant green behind the treetops. Once, she found him lying there with his eyes closed, listening to the sounds of the forest. As she arrived with supplies, the Kos again began to sound its happy call—he looked around in bewilderment. Yarico laughed as she pointed at the bird on a distant branch. He laughed too, and grabbing her hand, turned toward her with a full smile. It warmed her to see it, to be with him.
In the first month of winter, there was an eclipse of the moon, and Yarico led her companion to an elevated boulder, an open space above the trees. Together on the rock, they watched as the shadow passed before the goddess Ixchel, her stores of love and fertility pouring out over the earth as it went. As she began again to wax full, restoring her emptied parts with endless power, Yarico felt In’kl’s arm reach over her, lending its warmth to the bare skin of her chest. He brushed her face with his fingers, then cradled it in his hand, lifting her chin so her eyes met with his. He pulled her closer, and pressed his lips upon her own. They were soft, like the felt caps of peck mushrooms. Destroying spirits, they were called, for their poison. She could never understand how something so incomparably white, so pure and beautiful, could be so dangerous. She fell into his embrace, opening her heart and her body to Ixchel’s gifts, and she did so with the love and the fervor she had saved all her life for this moment.
~~~ * ~~~
Several weeks passed for the lovers in bliss and beauty that neither had ever imagined possible. When word came to Yarico that a Spanish port was discovered south of the Itza territory, her excitement for In’kl welled and she shared it with him. The news struck the man in a peculiar manner. He quieted and his smile diminished. She knew how much he loved his homeland, his people, just as she loved hers. But she understood the weight of his shifting emotions as that of one torn between two opposing passions. She could not bear to be a cause of his suffering, and determined that she would go with him to his land and his people, leaving hers behind. She knew he had already sacrificed so much to stay with her as long as he did, and she decided it was her turn to sacrifice for their love. In’kl accepted her gesture without any hesitation, and the two set off, by Yarico’s guidence, southward to the Spanish settlement.
Upon their arrival, Yarico hid herself in the forest while In’kl found men to negotiate their travel plans. She smiled as she watched his distant form gesturing and communicating with ease, a part of him she had never seen before. He was so beautiful, so kind, and she felt the gratitude of being his companion fill her body and soul. He returned swiftly, calling her name. She felt a subtle pain in her abdomen as she emerged from thick brush, and cradling her arm around it, she looked up at him. He was looking down at her cradled stomach, a new smile forming on his face. But she didn’t know this smile. It was so different from the ones she had watched and admired in the light of the rainforest. She hesitated as she reached for his outstretched arm, but rebuking her inward doubt, grabbed his hand.
As soon as she did, several men emerged from the bushes surrounding her. They bound her, fastening her wrists and ankles in chains. She cried out in pain, searching for In’kl, for his eyes to provide an explanation. But he was distant again, speaking to the same man as before. As her captors began to pull her chains seaward and toward a large ocean vessel, she caught In’kl’s gaze for the last time. But in it she could not find the man she loved; only a glaze of something she had never known before—something more treacherous than the weapons of her people, the very thing she now knew her father had died to keep out of their homeland. She wept, calling to him again and again, but receiving no answer, no acknowledgement. It was only later—two years to be precise—after having been forced into the servitude of an English landowner in Barbados, compelled to learn the language and customs of her master, that she was finally able to understand the last sounds uttered from In’kl’s lips; those that while yet foreign to her had forever been imprinted on her heart. “She is with child, I now require a higher price.”
April 28, 2020
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