Creating a Character To Fear

At the first meeting of our new local writing group, we talked about creating characters briefly and will probably make that a topic at our first official meeting. I talked about a character I created for my story, The Dream Stealer. 

I, like everyone else, have trouble at times creating a believable character but in my opinion, Striker is the best one I've ever created. I struggle to keep the quality without over doing it. 

What I learned in creating Striker is that sometimes who they are is be described by things other than the color of their hair and eyes. What they do, how they react, what the feel and even what the see can define a character. Of course, that's just what I think. I'll let you tell me. 

Here's the first scenes involving Striker ever written. And yes, this is the way it went onto the paper. The scene had never under gone more than a cursory edit.   Don't tell anyone but Striker actually wrote this himself. I was too scared to write it.

The breeze floating in through the open window shifted the wind chime and sent tinkling notes onto the air to mingle with the smell of motor oil and the arroz seasoned with peppers and onions. A horn sounded very far away. 

    He watched the golden rods on the chimes sway in the air, the morning sun glinting off the surface. Through the window he could see the crystal blue of the Caribbean. It would be a beautiful day out there on the cruiser. 

    “I don't want to hurt you, senorita. Truly.” The voice was gruff, heavily accented and solicitous.

    Striker turned back to the room to watch. The woman's body tensed visibly but she didn't make a sound. A fine sheen of sweat covered her arms and chest above the scooped neck of her blouse and sweat ran down her neck, into the valley between her breast. There was an ugly bruise on her left cheek bone. The blindfold was tied so tightly around her head that it creased the skin at her temple and he marveled again at her resolve and her strength throughout the ordeal. 

    She was no weakling, this one. He hated to be the one to tell Julio but she wasn't going to be broken so easily. He turned back toward the window. It was a lovely day out there. He'd like to be sitting under an umbrella somewhere watching the water, drinking something cold and soothing. He sighed. 

    Julio jabbed her in the shoulder with the long wooden dowel he held. “You could be home tonight, querida. Wouldn't you like that? Making love to your man, or taking a nice bubble bath.”

    No response.

    A resounding smack echoed through the rafters of the warehouse as Julio slammed the dowel on the top of the desk near where the woman sat. Striker jerked and she jumped and for the first time a small whimper escaped her. Julio smiled. “Tell me where it is!”

    Striker knew what he was thinking. To men like Julio if you applied enough fear, pain, and aggression you could get anyone to talk. For the most part, Striker agreed but he didn't believe it in this case. He'd seen this kind of woman before. They were rare but they were not to be taken for granted. This one was smarter than Julio. Maybe smarter than him. She might be terrified but she wouldn't be cowed. At the end of the day, Julio would have to kill her. He'd toy with her first but he would kill her. She knew it and would act accordingly. At the first opportunity, she'd rip Julio's heart out. 

    He studied the object on the desk. The burnished finish glowed softly in the morning  light that fell across the desktop. It was a cube approximately six inches on each side, the corners rounded off and each surface intricately carved with flowers, butterflies, birds, and a maiden. It appeared to be solid but his information was that there was a key to open it and this woman knew the location of the key. 

    Julio stretched out a grubby hand and grabbed the long strawberry blond ponytail and yanked her head back. Had it not been for the blindfold she would have been forced to look into his face. Lowering his mouth to her ear he whispered something Striker could not hear but knew must have been horrible by her reaction. She tried to curl her body in on itself but because she was bound to the chair, hands behind her back and feet tied to the legs, she could do no more than cringe. Julio laughed. Striker made a face. Primitive. 

    The Latino turned and looked at Striker, his face angry. This wasn't working fast enough for him. He didn't understand patience. He didn't understand that for torture to be truly effective, one had to take one's time. Haste was a waste. It was inefficient, over quickly before the subject had time to realize what had happened. Typically, the subject died before revealing all that was needed.  

    It was why he had been called in. El jefe was not pleased with Julio's results thus far. He'd already killed two potential leads with his heavy handed manner. Striker was here today to prevent another such disaster. Julio probably suspected it but couldn't be sure. He would get his chance but he would not be allowed to go too far before Striker intervened. For the moment, Striker would stand quietly on the sidelines and the woman would remain unaware of his presence.  

    “Listen, puta,” he said, voice soft and caressing. “I'm not going to keep asking nicely. You tell me what I want and I let you go.” 
    
    He sat on the edge of the desk and reached out to stroke her cheek, her lips. He leaned forward and Striker saw her recoil from the breath in her face. He'd had a whiff of it himself. If Julio stayed there much longer she'd vomit in his face.

    “You and me, when this is over, we get us a drink in a nice little cantina I know. You know, no hard feelings. But you got to help me here.”

    Striker shook his head. The man was a fool. He'd slapped her, pinched, punched, threatened, and antagonized her. Now, he was trying to entice her with a date. No wonder they hadn't got what they wanted. This woman was no one's fool. None of this would work on her. 

    Still. He looked again at the cube. What was inside that was worth dying for?

    A cry of pain pulled his attention from the desk. Julio was getting heavy handed. He had jabbed the dowel into her stomach, hard. Striker sighed. Time's up. He strode over to the man and yanked the dowel from his hand, jabbing it into Julio's stomach and then, twisting it up and hitting him beneath the chin so hard it slammed his head back. He landed on his back, stunned. The Latino recovered quickly and fury boiled out of him. He regained his footing and charged Striker, roaring curses as spittle sprayed from his mouth. 

Like an matador, Striker stepped back, allowing the bull to stumble past him. He spun on his heel, preparing to face him. Julio turned to charge again. Striker was ready. He reached inside his jacket and pulled the Sig Sauer p220 from the shoulder holster and fired into Julio's face. Almost before Julio hit the floor, Striker had put the gun away and grabbed the cube, stuffing it into his pocket. He pulled a knife and slashed the rope that bound her hands and feet. 

    “Easy now. No, leave it on. You don't want to see just yet.” He caught her hand as it reached for the blindfold. “Let me get you out of here first. We have to hurry.” 

    She stood and he could feel her trembling so violently she could hardly stand. He lifted her into his arms and hurried to the door at the end of the room where he put her down. “Stand here and let me get the door opened.”

    “Who. . .who are you?” She turned her head, looking blindly toward him, reaching out with one hand. It was the first words he'd heard her say and he was shocked to realize she was an American. “Please, who are you?”

    “Doesn't matter. Someone who wants to help you.” Metal screamed as he pushed the large metal door up. There wasn't a chance that it wasn't heard if anyone was around to listen. He had tried to get rid of all the guards but it was possible he'd missed some. He had no idea how many there had been in Julio's band. He shielded her and looked around the frame. Sunlight glared off the cement drive that ran between the warehouses, sending waves of heat shimmering up into the air. He squinted before finally slipping on his sunglasses. Better. No guards in sight and his Lexus sat where he had left it. 

    “Come on.” He took her arm and lead her out. “Just walk with me. There is nothing in the way to trip you up. But try and walk fast.”

    “Can't I take this off?”

    “Best not yet. I don't know if there are any guards still around. It won't look suspicious if I have you in a blindfold.”

    “Oh.”

    They reached the car and helped her inside and quickly got in the driver's side. Reaching across her, he buckled her seat belt. Then, he slipped the blindfold off. She had green eyes.

    “Thank you. Whoever you are. Thank you.” She started to cry.

    He handed her a box of tissue from the back seat. Then, he drove off while she composed herself. After a few miles he glanced at her. “Better?”

    She nodded. “Will you take me home now?”

    He smiled. “Soon. Don't you want to go to the police first?”

    “The locals? I don't think so. I'd probably end up in jail myself. No, just home.”

    A few more miles and he pulled into the drive of a small house set back from the road and surrounded by trees. He got out and went around to help her out of the car. 

    “I don't know how to thank you.”

    “Let's get you inside and get those injuries taken care of. You have a nasty bruise on your face.”

    One hand went to the bruised cheek and she turned toward the house. She unlocked the door and stepped back to let him in. He saw the fear bloom in her eyes as she realized what had just happened. Pushing against the door, she tried to force him out but it was too late. He shoved against it, sending her crashing into the wall where she slid down onto the floor. She began to whimper.

    He reached down and pulled her gently to her feet, kicking the door shut behind him. “Now, darling. You're going to tell me everything. What did you do with it?”


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It was just getting dark by the time he left the house. He closed the door and strolled down the walk, buttoning his coat as he went. As he drove away he saw in the rear view mirror that the porch light came on. Obviously on a timer.
She'd put up a valiant fight. He had expected no less from her. It was unfortunate that the information he sought was never in her possession. She had simply been an innocent bystander caught in the crossfire. A pity. She was very pretty. He'd particularly liked the strawberry blond hair. It was smooth as silk and smelled of coconut.
He glanced toward the west where the sky still showed a slender streak of peach just above the horizon. Too late to take the cruiser out and he had a plane to catch in the morning. Something about her had distracted him. He couldn't put his finger on it. Although she'd had no valuable information, she had revealed the names of three people who would need to be questioned.

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Striker sat back in the overstuffed chair with his head resting against the cushion, drawing deeply on the small cigar. He blew three perfect smoke rings and sipped the Old Fashioned. Through nearly closed eyes, he studied the bronze cube on the coffee table before him. The gilt surface glowed warmly in the light from the lamps around the room, causing a halo to surround. 
    
It was heavily carved on all sides and it was some of the finest work he'd ever seen.   If you turned the box on an axis, the four consecutive sides showed a garden of trees, flowers and vines. On one panel a maiden stood near a fountain, her hand stretched toward the spray. The top side of the box was carved with foliage, like the canopy of a forest and was the only indication that it was the top. If the box was flipped over, the base showed a pit of writhing creatures with bulging eyes and sharp teeth. No doubt the underworld. There was no indication of a lock, hinges or even a line defining where the lid was or if there was a lid. It appeared to be old but whether it was made a month ago or a thousand years ago was impossible to tell, even with his expertise. No doubt the craftsman who'd created it had been exceptional. He wondered if he were still above ground. It would help if he were.
    
He blew another smoke ring. There were people he could take it to who could tell him but that would also create questions that required answers he couldn't give. He lifted his head and opened his eyes to study the room. 
    
The deep burgandy walls and walnut furnishing and woodwork gave the room warmth and reflected the light. Thick carpet on the floor muffled every step. Two walls were covered with floor to ceiling shelves, fronted with glass doors to prevent dust from settling on the art work. Behind the glass stood sculptures of ivory, bronze, brass, silver, and wood from all over the world. They represented years of searching in flea markets, bazaars, auctions, and estate sales. On the third wall around the doorway, were a dozen paintings, the majority more than a hundred years old. 
    
This was his sanctuary, the place where he came to refresh his mind and work on the more difficult problems of a case. Here he was surrounded by real beauty and a sense of continuity. Nothing was required of him but admiration. There were no emotions to define and suppress. He sighed and drew deeply of the Havana. He had them imported.
    
But nothing in this place compared to the small bronze cube before him. He sighed, sat his glass down and lifted the cube. It was heavy. Heavier than it should have been. The information he'd been given indicated it was a sealed box with something inside that needed to be retrieved. They didn't want to do an analysis that might damage the box or its contents. His job was to find a way in. That was what he usually did. However, the targets were usually living breathing beings whose emotions could be easily picked apart, examined and manipulated. Art was not so encumbered. 
    
Placing the box against his forehead he closed his eyes. It was cool. A small smile slid across his face. But it was silent, blessedly silent. He loved it.

Moonpath

10/31/06 10:45 pm

It was cold along the river. The wind clawed its way down Beth's back. From the side of the bridge, the catwalk hung out over the water. Scratches on her knees and palms burned as she carefully crawled along. With each gained inch, she sobbed. The walk seemed to grow narrower and the knots in her stomach twisted tighter.

When she reached the center, she clutched the railing and pushed her back against the girder, only then could she breath. She did not look down.

From her perch she could see where the dark waters flowed over the banks and lapped at the walls of the raised fishing shacks. Lights glowed in those the water had not yet reached. If she looked directly ahead, she could see the rippling path of the harvest moon on the water. It beckoned.

Beth traced the moonpath until she looked directly at the glowing orb, suspended in the center of its halo. The sad face still watched her. For the last century she had watched him rise over the water and wondered what made him so sad. She shivered and pulled the thin jacket close around her shoulders. She lifted the thick chain at her neck, looked at the round, gold watch and laughed. It wasn't a century at all, just an hour since she'd come to this place. It was 11:30, almost the witching hour. The heavy gold chain caught the moonlight and threw it back defiantly.

Beth wondered at his sadness and almost felt sorry for him. What could he possibly know of sadness? He was cold and empty and barren. Always, he beheld the world with sadness. If the world became too much for him, he turned his face from it.

Perhaps it wasn't sadness. She studied the expression closely. Perhaps it was frowning disapproval. Endless attempts to pull away from the earth, only to be pulled back must be a great frustration. Yes, yes, she thought, that's it, frowning disapproval. Disgust made him turn away, longing to be free.

As she looked at the moon, Beth felt her anger grow. Who is he to sit in judgment on me, she thought. He, a pale reflection of strength, had nothing of his own to give.

"What do you know of anything?" she flung at him.

He did not answer, just continued to frown. How did the he continue to shine like that? How keep that same face, revealing nothing.

How did he combat the frustration, the wretched helplessness that engulfed the mind and still smile? She had been unable to shut it out for weeks now. There had not been enough work, enough to read, watch or eat to drive it away. Until now... until now there had been no way out of the flood of ceaseless thought, of looking for a way out.

"Now I can forget," she whispered. The slow, agonizing crawl had made her forget. Only a fear greater than any other had conquered the relentless gnawing in her mind. But only for awhile. She knew if she went back it would be waiting for her. Already she sensed it beginning to push against the doors she had barred in her mind.

Beth studied the path that started just beneath where she sat. It was so lovely and silvery. Stretching away to where the moon hung, watching her. Waiting. She imagined that if she stepped down she would find that path was truly made of silver. It would be cool and smooth. Walking would only be a matter of gliding along, no effort.

Life, she thought, has become too difficult. I just want to stop thinking about it. I want to leave it all behind. I don't want to get up tomorrow and find the problems standing by my bed. Debts must be paid, children must be clothed, fed and housed and there was not enough time. I want time to laugh, to rest, to be at peace. I'm so tired.

She leaned her head back against the cold steel and closed her eyes. Tears rolled, long and slow, down her cold cheeks. "I am so old and I have no time."

Her voice broke. Beth clenched her fist and pushed hard against the walk, trying to ease the ache pushing at her chest, at her mind. She opened her eyes and looked at the frowning face before her.

"I miss reading stories to the children, baking cookies, sewing, making my house a home. I miss reading a good book before bed. I miss the late night laughter with my husband. It's work from morning until night with no leisure."

"I don't mind work," she said to the frowning face. "I just want to be something more than a machine. I want to count for something more than how much money I make. I want to think of more than how I'll pay the next bill. I want to matter to someone. I want to laugh. I want to enjoy living again. But I can't do everything. I don't have enough time."

She pounded the walk, anger pouring out, setting ripples in the path. There had never been choices, never a right time. There always seemed to be only one path.

 She raged up at that face, "Why couldn't I have had a choice? Why wasn't I asked what I wanted from life? But no, events were simply dished out, regardless of how much pain they caused or how close I came to the edge."

"I can get very close to the edge now," she said softly to the glowing white face. "I have learned to dance on the edge. Once I couldn't have got this far. Just look at me now."

She put her feet under her. Grasping the girders on either side of her, she carefully pushed herself to a standing position, her back pushed hard against the bridge footing behind her.

"See," she whispered breathless, triumphant. "See! Once I couldn't do this."

Long ago she had learned to wear a smiling mask and laugh at herself. No one had asked her if she was happy. They simply assumed she was. You must never let anyone see you cry. Never let anyone see the pain or fear.

"I have tried to tell them, you know, to explain." She stared out at the disgusted face. "I never seem to have enough time to do everything. I want to but I just can't. I want to be all the people they want me to be but when do I get to be who I want to be?"

"Don't glare at me like that." She clenched the steel beams at her sides. They were smooth and cold beneath her hands. The tears on her face felt like drops of ice and the knot in her chest became a stone.

"You have no right to judge me. You hang there night after night, scorning people you don't even know, all the while taking your light from another. You can't even pull yourself away from your own chains."

With one cold hand she again caught the chain around her neck and dangled the round watch in front of her. "Just as I am tied to this, you too are tied." She hesitated, a slow, sly smile stealing over her face. "But I can remove my chains. I can cast off all my chains."

She let go of the other beam and used both hands to lift the chain over her head. Holding it aloft, she laughed out loud. "See how easy it is for me."

Again she laughed at the face of the moon. It seemed pleased and returned her smile. The moonpath wavered and shimmered beneath her, as if anticipating. The moon sank lower.

"Wait! Please, don't go. I have to show you." She reached up, stretching the watch out toward the smiling face. "See, I'm free, I'm free."

She swung with all her might. The golden orb with its heavy chain was, for a moment, suspended before the smiling face of the moon. Then, with gathering speed it descended in a glittering arc to the moonpath below.

The smooth, sliver surface cracked, splintered and disappeared. The smiling moon slipped beneath the horizon as the night echoed with a final cry of liberation.

********

The little girl ran along the bank of the river and laughed in delight. The moist ground felt wonderful under her feet.

 "Jennie, come back. You mustn't get too far ahead."

"Oh but mama, just feel how cool it is on your feet. It don't squish up 'tween my toes neither."

Mary laughed and slipped off her shoes. It did feel good. This land was flooded in the fall. They had feared the spring rain would do the same. It had not and Jim got the crop in the ground on time.

Jenny stopped and looked up at the blue sky. "Mama, look, Mr. Moon is showin' his round ole face in the daytime. Why?"

"Well, maybe he wanted to share this golden day, Jennie. Maybe he's lonesome."

"Well, with that frowny ole face, I reckon so." Jenny had no time for the moon. Something ahead beckoned to her. It caught the sunlight and threw it into her eyes. She darted off.

"Jennie, wait."

Jennie giggled and ran ahead. She squatted on the ground and the small fingers scratched at the black silt. It resisted the efforts to release the prize. Jennie was persistent. She dug her nails into the new earth and curled them around the dazzle. She pulled.

"What have you got, Jennie?" said Mary.

Jennie held up her find. "Gold," she said.

Mary took the object gently in her hand. "Why, it's a watch on a gold chain. Oh my, Jennie, this looks expensive."

"What time is it, mama?"

"Oh, it doesn't work, dear. After being in the river, it wouldn't. Nothing but a fish could survive the river. It stopped at twelve o'clock." She studied it carefully.

"Perhaps we can get it repaired for you."

The Bourbon Century

Latin American History
May 3, 1991

The last Hapsburg to rule in Spain was Charles II.  By the time of his reign, the government had long been thoroughly corrupt and apparently unconcerned with the condition of the economy and government of the country.

The trade with the Indies was nearly completely in the hands of foreigners.  The revenue from the Indies, what little there was, barely made it to the bank before creditors collected.  The Army had lost any distinction it had as a result of the many lost wars it had experienced since the sinking of the Armada in 1588.  In short, the country was going to hell in a hand basket.

The Hapsburgs had been having a wonderful time bankrupting Spain; there is no reason to suppose Charles was any different.  He could not have helped knowing the state of his country but he apparently made no effort to correct the situation until his death.  Even if he had tried, it is doubtful if it would have mattered by this time.  Charles' health was bad and resulted in his being consistently at the point of death and constantly making crowned heads nervous by it.

Intrigue is not a modern concept and countless nations have been handed back and forth by conspiracies.  France and England had arranged to have an Austrian Archduke take over the Spanish throne at Charles' death and to divvy up the possessions.  While Charles may have been contrary about dying, he was obviously a prudent man with a concern about his country. He must have realized under Hapsburg rule Spain would only continue to decline.  He left a will naming seventeen year old Philip of Anjou, grandson of Louis 14th, as his heir. Philip of Anjou became Philip V of Spain.  Perhaps this was Charles' way of doing penance for his sins or of repairing the damage done to Spain by his own family.

Whatever his reason, it immediately plunged Spain into the War of the Spanish Succession.  France paid most of the cost of this war and it was devastating for her but it was a new life for Spain.  Even though she lost some of her possessions as a result of the war, it was to Spain's benefit.  Fewer possessions take less money to run and less military energy to defend.

In the beginning some objected to the country being run by the French king and his French advisers.  After all, this was the same Spain which had known centuries of foreign domination, the older members of government would not easily welcome its return.  However, once they realized these were the same kind of men who had helped France prosper they accepted the leadership.  Spain supported their new King and were overwhelmingly loyal to him.

Although, all major post were held by Frenchmen to start with, gradually well-born, military men took over; in turn, the noble class died out.  Under Bourbon rule Spain blossomed.  With the French came enlightenment ideas which would affect all areas of Spanish society in both Spain and New Spain.  Government, diplomacy, economic affairs and cultured life returned.

Reforms began with Philip and his ministers and continued until the last Bourbon ruler, Charles III in 1746.  Charles III is considered to be perhaps the finest King Spain ever had and it is under his rule that the most extensive and beneficial reforms occur. The idea of the French rulers was to centralize government and bring the monarch's power to the local level; by the end of Charles III's reign this was accomplished and both Spain and New Spain had, for a time, experienced prosperity.

The creation of the Ministry of the Marines and the Indies in 1714 nearly eliminated the Council of the Indies.  All policy making decisions were delegated to the Ministry of the Marines and the Indies, as were matters concerning finance, commerce, trade, war, and most matters concerning the colonies.  The Council continued but it dealt mostly with court matters.

The House of Trade was moved to Cadiz in 1717, a seaport town, and its functions limited.  An effort was made by Philip V to bring back the flota but it didn't work. In the beginning trading monopolies were created along the same lines of the Dutch East India but only one survived very long and was profitable.

It was under Charles III and on the advice of an economist, Jose Campillo, that private registers or individual sailings were authorized.  With the introduction of free trade, Spanish trade increased to the point of nearly eliminating all foreign traders.  The result was so good duties were reduced and in some cases eliminated.  Trade between colonies was allowed as well.  These changes caused a decrease in smuggling and a drop in prices of manufactured goods in the colonies, and raw goods in Spain.

The opening of trade helped Spain but only slightly affected the Indies, since all trade was carried out with the soul purpose of filling Spain's purse.  Latin America was still being stripped of its resources for the benefit of Spain.  The increase of trade created a growth in the merchant class in Spain and Latin America, but these were usually members of the privileged class. It was a case of the rich getting richer and the poor getting poorer.  In no way nor at any time do the Indian, mestizo, and mulatto benefit from the trade increase.

Another major reform was the division of viceroyalties into smaller units called intendencies.  This was a French idea which had been used in Spain by Philip V and was now brought to Latin America by Charles III.

The ruler of these intendencies was called the intendent and was nearly always a Peninsular Spaniard.  His powers included operation of the government, administering justice, promotion of economy - trade, agriculture, industry - oversee the church, provide military defense, collect taxes and see to the welfare of the people.  Below him were sub-delegates to help him deal with this enormous job.  It is obvious from the list of duties that smaller units would of course be easier to deal with in every way.  The lines of authority were clearer and more efficient and less corrupt government was possible.

The church was not an institution France admired and in France it was kept under tight rein.  In spite of the Bourbon kings of Spain being devout, they felt the church was too rich, too powerful, and too large.  Over a period of time the King had lost the most of his right to nominate clergymen to Rome.  After the King recovered this right, he then proceeded to reduce the size of the clergy.  By 1717, Philip V would allow no new convents in New Spain and by 1734 no one could enter religious orders for ten years.  The clergy could no longer assist in the making of wills.  This circumvented the church's ability to accumulate wealth by getting those making wills to leave their property to the church as a means of atonement.  In 1753 Charles III issued a concordate allowing the Crown to tax church property and in 1767 he expelled the Jesuits from Latin America.

The Bourbon reforms in Spain were evident but not until the reign of Charles III was there real evidence of these reforms in Latin America.  It is difficult to tell how effective they were because they existed for only a short time.  Government did improve to some extent, trade improved, and wealth increased for some, including the crown.  By restricting the church, reducing the clergy, and decreasing its wealth the crown reduced its power.  However, its influence remained, especially in Latin America where it became an instrument of revolution.

However, inequalities existed and the reforms did not address these.  The enlightenment prized so highly by the French and so eagerly accepted by the Spanish Americans was the catalyst for the resulting revolutions. Before the reforms could take a firm hold the people changed. The division between Peninsulares and Creoles widened allowing the creation of revolutionary thought to express itself.  The unfair treatment of Indians, mestizos and mulattos would provide the revolutionaries with an army.

The transplanting of institutions and ideas which were to give Spain greater control gave Latin America the structure, the means, and the determination to break away.  In essence, the Bourbon century was successful in one area it never intended to be. 

Sources

Fagg, John.  Latin American History.  The Macmillian Company:      London:  1969, 213-372.

Gibson, Charles.  Spain in America.  Harper Torch Books:  New     York:  1967, 160-216.

Graham, Richard.  Independence in Latin America.  Alfred A.     Knoph:  New York:  1972, 3-131.  

Herring, Hubert.  A History of Latin America: From the Beginning     to the Present.  Knoph:  New York:  1968, 237-286.

The Castilian Character

Fatalism, heroic ideals, indifference and contempt for others' thoughts and ideas, and religious devotion to the point of fanaticism would be the simplest way to define the Castilian character.  However, character does not form in and of itself but is a result of the combination of one's environment and the events that occur in one's life.  The Castilian character formed in just this way.

The Iberian Peninsula is an area surrounded by water and mountains, effectively isolating the people from the ideas and customs of the rest of the world.  Inland, the varied topography served to isolate the Iberians from each other as well, creating localism but making it difficult to unite groups in a common cause.

The land itself, most of which is poor soil, with few ports, and a harsh climate made wanderers of the people.  Whether searching for fresh pasture land or the hope of a better life in a far-away land, these people developed a character which is self-sufficient, hardy, determined, and adventurous.  All of these characteristics would contribute to create the conquistadors and set them on the journey to the New World.

As an American it is hard to visualize over 2000 years of rule by at least seven conquering hordes; for the Iberian Peninsula, it was a way of life.  Perhaps as hundreds of years would go by the Iberians began to relax and feel this time would be the last.  It wasn't.  An endless supply of conquerors seemed to stream across the borders of the Peninsula for centuries.  Phoenicians, Greeks, Carthiginians, Romans, Vandals, Visigoths, and Moslems came; each leaving their mark on the land and its people.    

The Romans, with their focus on cities and law, effected a great change on the people.  They brought the Christian religion and with it rigid orthodoxy and religious zeal.  The Roman changed even the language of the Iberian Peninsula;  Spanish is a corruption of Latin.  In order to break the ties of people to places, the Romans would move them from one place to another.  Thus, the country was unified by law, language, and forced colonization.  These concepts would show up centuries later in the Spanish conquest and colonization of New Spain and would gradually forge a new country.

With the Moslems came new habits and customs, such as the siesta.  Schools, the arts, and classical learning were introduced.  The use of marble, tiles, bright colors and designs in architecture changed the face of the country when introduced in conjunction with mosques, palaces, and fountains. It would take centuries but this architecture was transplanted to the new world with only slight and gradual modification.

All people grow tired of being conquered and the Spanish were no different but to have a re-conquest there must be an army.  It is possible the poor could envision a better life under the rule of their own people; however, the motives of the nobility, Church, and King to regain their wealth must always lie under the surface.  The discovery of what was thought to be the body of St. James gave the Christian remnants the motivation they needed.  God was with them and with the battle cry of Santiago, the re-conquest began in earnest.  With each successive victory their numbers would grow until the Moslem invaders were pushed back across the sea.

The Church was a unifying factor in the re-conquest but the iron hand of Castile and Aragon in the latter part added nationalism to religious zeal.  The Inquisition served to mop up any remaining dissenters.   Centuries of Moslem rule was over.  The Jews with their religion and wealth were gone.  Spain had purged its nation and church and set herself on a course for economic ruin.  

After 500 years of war with the Moslems, there is certainly good reason for the Spaniard to have acquired a religious devotion and a love for military lifestyle.  His belief in his own courage, strength, and virility was reinforced.  No longer would he allow other nations to make the rules for him.  Never would he grub in the dirt or barter in the market place.  As a soldier, for God and King, he would live and die as he chose, conquering the heretic.

Soldiers, government officials, merchants, clerics and settlers sailed to New Spain.  They set out to christianize the pagan peoples they met there, as well as take their land.  To the Indian the armored conquistador must have appeared as a god who was half man, half beast.  He saw a god with light skin, a body which reflected the sun, and an ability to run like the wind.  These gods carried rods which thundered, smoked, and killed.  By various methods the Indian would learn that these weren't gods but mortals. It would be too late. The Indians' own fatalism would do them in; their myths foretold destruction and it came.

As for the Spanish view of the Indian, it varied from person to person and time to time.  Columbus thought they were gentle people who would be eager to be Christianized and serve the monarchy.  They eventually were all these things, but the Spanish reputation was acquired in getting them to that point.      The island Indians were considered little more than animals.  While Indians on the mainland were slightly more civilized, the demand for a labor force ensured that the colonist would remain blind to the humanity of the Indians.  Only with the arrival of clerics concerned with the plight of these people did they acknowledge the fact that these were human beings, deserving humane treatment.  Even with this knowledge the Indian was most often mistreated.

The discovery of the New World brought new vistas to Spaniards.  Novels which told of knights, maidens, exotic lands, strange people, and hidden wealth were popular and enticed the adventurous conquistadors to explore and conquer.  They were after all valiant men; they had vanquished their enemies. Whatever fate awaited them in this new land was unimportant compared to the possible wealth and glory.  Some came to seek gold, some glory.  They all came to conquer and claim the land for their own, no matter what the risk.  It could be said they were being true to their Roman heritage.  The motto for the conquistadors could have been written by Caesar: I came, I saw, I conquered.  They did. 
  

Sources

Davies, Nigel  The Ancient Kingdoms of Mexico.  Penguin Books:  London, England:  1983, 247-253.

Fagg, John.  Latin American History.  The Macmillian Company:  London:  1969,
    35-210.

Gibson, Charles.  Spain in America.  Harper Torch Books:  New York:  1967, 1-159.

Haring, C.H.  The Spanish Empire in America.  Oxford University Press:  New York: 1947, 3-41.

Herring, Hubert.  A History of Latin America: From the Beginning to the Present.  Knoph:  New York:  1968, 64-203.

WRoE May Accountability Day - Late

It occurred to me today that I did not do Accountability Day this
month! It probably isn't important since I didn't write in April more
than an hour. I'd like to get back on track but it isn't looking good.

I'm like a yo-yo with the stress, depression and pain. I have days
when things go well and then I hit bottom. I've done no writing this
month either. It is a bit stressful.

On top of that, I'm having laptop problems. I'm going to probaby have
to reformat this weekend and check to see if I need a new battery. I
am having unexpected crashes and restarts. Since I'm plugged in at the
time, I don't know what that is about. The screen that tells me stays
up only long enough to tell me there was a problem but not read what
it was!

So, I'm far behind on my own WRoE. No, it is not acceptable. Not for
me. I'll start over and try again. Eventually, I'll figure out I'm
only extending my work. I spend an inordinate amount of time doing
stupid, wasteful things so it isn't impossible to write something
every day that contributes to the development of the novel. The only
excuse is that I'm not doing it. That's the truth.