"... And on the west of the West Indies -to this side- there is an island called Mulieres, very close to the side of the Terrestrial Paradise; and it is populated by black women, and these savages reproduce without a man, and they live in that manner of the so-called Amazons of the European myth.
They have beautiful and robust bodies, presenting fiery courage and great strength, and their clitorises emit a thick sperm, which is an unseen trait in the women of our villages in Castile, or Aragon.
And these clitorises are constantly lactiferous, and they are as big as the white worms that dwell in the humid prairie of Basconia, or Hendaye.
Their weapons, finally, are all made of gold, and of the same metal are the harnesses of the wild beasts that they are accustomed to mount, because throughout the island there is no other metal but gold.
And their lives are dedicated to Ixchel, a goddess of coitus and spasms, and all this information comes according to our great Captain, who lived in the Island Mulieres and impregnated the queen and her cohort, and all this insular territory now belongs to the so-denominated Galicia de Indias, which belongs to the Captaincy General of Yucatán, and there is an active volcano in the island, and its mouth discharge massive emissions, this is why the sky of Island Mulieres is yellow from August to December."
-from "Chronicles of the first destruction of the West Indies", by Deán Karlos Arguiñano (Seville, 1534)
Despite certain historical incoherences coming from the ancient sources, Cortés arrived to an extremely small island called Mulieres in 15..?
This insular portion was inhabited by one woman only, and no queen or cohort was found:
Cortés invaded alone
he didn't trust his men.
The island -as big as Manhattan or the Bronx, so to speak- seemed to be empty, at first sight
Hernán Cortés (or Cortes, for the English speaker, who ignores the accents, either tonic, circumflex or acute), he disembarked shaven
his boots walked down from a small galley built in panels of wood joined with tar and masacote, and this is how Cortés entered the isle
and those boots of Cortés were stolen from a pirate, whose name was Hawking or Hawkes
-the name of the galley was Santa Esmeralda-.
The beach on which the galley stayed fixed was flat and smoothly mounded, like a tit: the sands were considerably hot and its color was bone, or matute.
After 21 minutes walking, Cortés found a hut or bohío in the middle of an alluvial jungle
a thin thread of white smoke like cum emanated from a sort of chimney, Cortés ran to the hut, hoping to find life
opening the wooden and stinky door, a ghastly spectacle appears in front of the steely eye of the conquistador:
a pile of 10 dead witches all covered in warts and queso mantecoso is fallen in the middle of the hall of that horrible hovel, surrounded by an offensive odour that invades everything
their light-green, shiny and tumescent skins are inflated by the varicose putrefaction and the queso mantecoso, undermined by the larvae, just begins a puke-inducing osmosis, invading the pores and the warts of the witches with its lacteal fluids, creating colony under their skins, and resurfacing again through other pores in inenarrable and flourishing myriad of small pupas that deposit new and microscopic eggs in the decaying tissues, moving and pullulating feverishly on and in the degraded human flesh in morbid germination of sticky and creamy cocoons that explode second after second
a fast and easy river of vomit ran through the throat of Hernán Cortés, who regorged the yellow liquid on the floor of that repugnant habitation, in unstoppable cascade:
his eyes flashed with flaming flabbergastation for the flip-flop that this flummoxing floripondio made flare in his flickering psyche, full of fingle-fangley flapdoodles, flip-a-bitches and fletiferous flops:
taking a new look at the witches, Cortés emitted a surd and guttural screech, like a syphilitic mongoose, and initiated veloce escape from that place enchanted by the terror and the supernaut things
and he ran through the jungle with his hairs in flame, because the hut was -in fact- burning with the witches inside, and some spark from that fuego brutal reached his capillary filaments or villosity:
desperate and with his head ignited like a soleil, Cortés reaches, fortunately, a putrid bog, and jumps in it with felicitous pirouette to quench his crinous ardor in the rotting waters full of moss and turd of jabalí.
Swimming inadvertently in the marsh, Cortés didn't realize
a tall woman of 1'70 metre was looking at him with bonfire in the eye
she was shamelessly naked at the heat of the region, and a big clit appeared in the middle of her legs, like a massive phallus
her skin was polished chocolate, like that of the statue
she had a wooden club in his right hand, and a rope: with a gesture she commanded the conquistador to get out of the bog.
Cortés, who wasn't afraid of nothing -except the putrefaction, the witches, the fire and his own blood- obeyed this exotic warrioress, and as intrigued as stolid, allowed her to tie him with the rope, pretending to be afraid.
The Amazon was alone, without any company but a white horse, which possibly was stolen from the Spaniards:
mounting on the equine, without words, the martial female marched toward her hidden place, taking Cortés tied, so that the cruel invader had to follow the horse walking like a slave behind his master.
The iron of his stare was fixed on her back.
This savage army of one that the she-warrior was arrived to a home built in stone, lost behind those tropical forests where the lechiguana dwells under the soil
she left Cortés steadily tied in the stable, where Cortés found out that she had more stolen horses
a short while later she came with a wodden bowl full of semi-raw meat of unidentified animal and a portion of fried maize
the virile woman left the food beside Cortés, and a flask with water, disappearing from the scene without a word, almost ignoring the presence of the ambitious captain:
Hernán Cortés ate and drank as he could, because his hands were tied and almost completely immobilized... in fact he could get free from the rope, if he wanted, but -following his curious and somehow insane impulses- he decided to go on, to meet the destiny that the star had pre-arranged for him beforehand, whatever it was.
Sometimes, the epilogue is not the centre of the story, but its decoration and adjacencies:
Cortés was a slave of his selfishness and desires, and the warrioress was a slave of hers; and if we invoke Lacan here and now, and his postulate that "The human psyche is ruled by the structures of the language", we could perceive that the language spoken between Cortés and his captor was the language of the un-language, overall animal and mystic, full of unsolved profundities.
Sometimes, the epilogue is not the centre of the story, and the protagonists are not the central characters: because the central character, sweet reader, it's you.
You and all that psychic language that you added to the sequences, in envisionment and sensations; this is the reason why you know how the story ends, but I don't.
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