The Inca Empire was also at the height of its powers. It was the largest and most potent empire that South America had ever known. But it was all to go drastically wrong.
The Spanish arrived to conquer Peru in one of the bloodiest episodes in the
history of the empire. It was then, when all hope had drained away and the blood of thousands of Incas ran in rivers down the hills into the valleys that they sacrificed their most beautiful and cherished Topahuay to their god of war, in the desperate hope that he would save them. Clasping the box to her breast she was dressed in exquisitely woven wools, her hair plaited and beaded with one hundred shining crystals. Upon her head was placed a large fan of white feathers to carry her into the next world and frighten the demons along the way. Wanchuko was unable to save her. He could only watch, helpless and heartbroken, as she was led up the small mountain path together with an entourage of high priests and dignitaries. As she passed him her large green eyes gazed upon him with such intense love that a light ignited about her head, a light not of this world. His lips trembled and his outstretched hand grabbed her woollen cloak in an effort to save her. But it was no good, the entourage passed him and continued up into the mists of the mountain. Up to the bridge that joined this world to the next, a bridge that Topahuay would have to cross alone. He was too angry to cry, too afraid to run after her. He stood petrified, waiting, wanting it to be over. When he unclenched his hand he saw a brightly woven piece of wool sitting in his shaking palm. A moment later he heard a short, piercing scream. He turned his eyes to the mountain where the scream echoed momentarily off the jagged peaks before disappearing into the wind. When he looked down at his hand the piece of wool had transformed itself into a resplendent butterfly. He watched, aghast, as she stood quivering in his palm for a brief second as if stunned by her own metamorphosis. Then she lifted her fragile wings and flew away. Topahuay had become a butterfly after all and her spirit was free.’
Federica was so moved a tear trailed slowly down her shining cheek, dropping off her lip onto her chin and finally into the box where it seeped into the crystals. ‘How did you get the box, Papa?’ she whispered, as if the sound of her voice would shatter the tenderness of the moment.
I found it in a village called Puca Pucara. Topahuay’s family had managed to salvage it before she was buried on the mountainside. They brought it down to their village where they kept it for a while until the Spanish came with their weapons and their slaughter. It was then that Topahuay’s mother gave it to Wanchuko, for she had always known what her daughter’s secret heart contained, and told him to leave Peru until it was safe to return. So Wanchuko left
as he had been told only to return many decades later as an old man. He had never married for he had vowed in his heart to love only Topahuay. He had wandered the world alone, thinking only of her. In dreams, when he was awake as much as when he was asleep, her open face and smiling eyes would come to him and comfort him through his lonely life. When he returned to Pisac he recognized no one. His family had been slaughtered along with Topahuay’s; in death there were no social divides. They had all died together, emperors and servants alike. On the brink of despair he climbed up the same path that Topahuay had walked that fateful day, all those years ago. At the top, to his surprise, he saw a little old woman sitting on the grass, looking out across the kingdom of mountain peaks. She was quite alone. When he approached her he recognized her as Topahuay’s sister, Topaquin. Time had warped her skin and shrunken her bones, just like his. But he knew her and when he came closer, she too recognized him and invited him to join her. There they talked about Topahuay, her short, tragic life and the Spanish armies of destruction who had stamped out their culture and way of life for ever. Wanchuko gave Topaquin the box, telling her that the spirit of Topahuay danced in the light of the crystals and sang with the music of the tiny bells. Then he lay back on the spot where Topahuay’s life had been so cruelly taken from her and died. He, too, crossed the bridge that joins this life to the next. But, he wasn’t alone, for Topahuay was with him and her love was there to guide him so no evil could touch him.
The box was taken to Puca Pucara and remained there for all that time, handed down from one generation to another. The strange thing is that an old woman gave it to me. She said that it has special powers. She said that I needed it more than she did. So, she wrapped it up and handed it to me. It must be priceless, Fede, like you. So you treasure it, for it was made with love and must be cherished with love.’
‘I’ll cherish it for ever, Papa. Thank you,’ she replied, overwhelmed with gratitude and so moved by the story that her lips seemed to lose their colour and turn pale.