The Power of Huacas: Change and Resistance in the Andean World of Colonial Peru 0292756941, 9780292756946

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The Power of Huacas

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The power of huacas Change and Resistance in the Andean World of Colonial Peru

By claudia brosseder

 Austin

University of Texas Press  

This book was produced with the help of the Deutsche Forschungsgemeinschaft and Heidelberg University. Copyright © 2014 by the University of Texas Press All rights reserved Printed in the United States of America First edition, 2014 Requests for permission to reproduce material from this work should be sent to: Permissions University of Texas Press P.O. Box 7819 Austin, TX 78713-­7819 http://utpress.utexas.edu/index.php/rp-­form ♾ The paper used in this book meets the minimum requirements of ANSI/NISO Z39.48-­1992 (R1997) (Permanence of Paper). Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data

Brosseder, Claudia, 1973–  The power of huacas : change and resistance in the Andean world of colonial Peru / by Claudia Brosseder. — First edition.   pages  cm  Includes bibliographical references and index.  ISBN 978-0-292-75694-6 (hardback) 1. Indians of South America—Peru—Religion. 2. Indians of South America— Peru—Rites and ceremonies. 3. Shamanism—Peru. 4. Peru—Religious life and customs. 5. Peru—History—1548–1820. I. Title. F2230.1.R3B76 2014 299.811'44—dc23 2014002682 doi:10.7560/756946

Contents

Acknowledgments vii Introduction 1 chapter one. A Land Obsessed with Confessions;

or, The Historians’ Insights into the World of Colonial Andean Religious Specialists 26

chapter two. Civil Versus Ecclesiastical Authorities 47 chapter three. The Sickening Powers of Christianity: A Response by Andean Religious Specialists 68 chapter four. Talking to Demons: The Intensified Persecution of Andean Religious Specialists (ca. 1609–1700) 104 chapter five. From Outspoken Criticism to Clandestine Resistance 136 chapter six. Glimpses of the Protective Powers of Andean Rituals in the Highlands 175 chapter seven. Andean Notions of Nature and Harm, and the Disempowerment of Andean Healers 192 chapter eight. Weeping Statues: The End of Jesuit Demonology and the Survival of an Andean Culture 229 chapter nine. Epilogue 254

Notes 273 Glossary 369

Consulted Archives and List of Abbreviations 373

Bibliography 375 Index 443

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Acknowledgments

To write the book was an odyssey, and my travels opened up a great many possibilities. I am deeply indebted to the many scholars whom I met. How can I thank them all? Let me try. Chance brought me ashore on the beaches of Peru and then led me further into the Andes. What began as an adventure transformed into an intellectual voyage, which could not have been more felicitous. The Bavarian state, in granting me the Bayerische Habilitationsförderpreis, made it possible. I am particularly grateful to Walter Ziegerer, who trusted that my ship would not drift apart on the seemingly endless ocean of transatlantic history. Trust humbles any scholar during his or her research. It serves like an anchor dropped in the dark sea, more necessary to a scholar than to a captain. Without Anthony Grafton, of Princeton; Winfried Schulze and Wulf Oesterreicher, both from Munich, who knew me from my previous endeavors and kindly served as referees; Paula Findlen, at Stanford, and Tamar Herzog, now at Harvard; and finally the referees from the Alexander von Humboldt Foundation, my journey would have ended on the river Rhine. Almost miraculously they all trusted that the archival material and the immense scholarship in the various seas through which I would sail would smooth the rough ideas I had in my mind. Special thanks goes again to Anthony Grafton, who was willing to read and comment on earlier drafts of this book, giving generous help when questions arose. I am grateful to the above-­mentioned scholars, who live the wonderful practice of scholarly give-­and-­take, for enabling me to see from the northern Pacific in Stanford what was distinctive about the southern shores of the same ocean. Stanford provided the tranquility I needed to reflect on what I had collected on my many trips to the Andes. It was particularly during these voyages to South America that I collected much more than flotsam. When I arrived there, especially in Peru, the various archives, libraries, and convents of Cuzco, Lima, Arequipa, Trujillo, Cajamarca, Chiclayo, Piura, Quito, Santa Cruz de la Sierra, Santiago de Chile, and La Paz all made available their treasures. They welcomed a total stranger who was searching for information on so suspicious a matter as hechizería, sorcery, in colonial Peru. Though these collections provided deep insights into colonial as well

viii  The power of huacas

as modern South America, they did not contain what I was looking for. As I traveled back and forth to the Andes, on stays both long and brief, I was able to make the acquaintance of many people who helped me in my investigations. In Peru, I must name in particular Ramón Mujica Pinilla; Manuel Marzal († 2005); Julian Heras, OCD; Armando Nieto; Jeffrey Kleiber; Jorge Flores Ochoa; Marcos Cueto; Luis Millones; Cesar Quiroanga, OBVM; Padre Armando, OP; Jean Jacques Decoster; and the staff of the Centro Bartolomé de las Casas. In Lima, Ramón Mujica Pinilla shared his abundant knowledge about colonial art with me, while Marcos Cueto familiarized me with the world of the colonial scientists. In Cuzco, Jorge Flores Ochoa introduced me into the world of Andean ethnographers. I thank them all. I also thank the members of the Jesuit, Dominican, Franciscan, and Mercedarian orders in Lima and Cuzco. The Mercedarians in Cuzco and the Dominicans in Lima decided to lock me into their rich colonial libraries, and my days there determined the paths I would take. Laura Gutiérrez Arbulú from the Archivo Arzobispal in Lima and the ever-­helpful staff of the National Library of Lima allowed a gringa to dive into Peruvian documents while keeping her from drowning. Without the personnel of the various archives, museums, and libraries in South America, Mexico City, Spain, and Rome, I would not have fished out any information. Special thanks go to Monseñor the Archbishop Héctor Miguel Cabrejos Vidarte of Trujillo and Antonio Vasco of the national library of Quito. I am grateful for the wonderful conversations I had with the Jesuits in Santiago de Chile and the help of the director of the library in Cuzco. I am particularly indebted to Nasario Turpe Condori, the altomisayuq from the Auzangate region, who showed me what trust in the powers of stones truly means. Unfortunately, he can no longer share his visions with us. My insights gained from archival material from New Spain and modern-­day Mexico provided the yardstick necessary to measure differences between the various colonial Latin American areas. They will be analyzed in a separate study. My life would be so much poorer without my friends in Peru: Gudrun Mayer-­Ullmann and Karl-­Heinz Horner, Marina Ascue Cabrera and Señora Raquel Cabrera Antezana, Edilma Samalvides and Douglas Stewart, Pablo Segovia, Holly Wissler, Wendy Weeks, and especially Mauro Condori, Joaquin Garcia Ttito, Fabian Condori Villaga, Timoteo Melo García, Fortunato Condori Condori, and their families from Junuta, Tinqui, and Chaupimayo. They taught me a world of respect for life in the Andes. Some of them showed me an everyday existence that humbles and enriches a researcher’s life.

acknowledgments  ix

In the United States, I extend my gratitude to James Sheehan, Stanford University, who kindly served as contact for the Alexander von Humboldt Foundation. I thank Tom Cummins, Harvard University, for our unplanned meeting in Lima, when he advised me to think about mulatto hechizeros. I thank Sabine MacCormack (†2012) for the intense conversation we held in her office. I thank Jorge Cañizares-­Esguerra, University of Texas at Austin, who cordially helped me explore baroque science. Charles Walker, University of California, Davis, generously shared his knowledge about Andean postcolonial times, and Kenneth Mills, University of Toronto, kindly posed the right questions about Andean religious specialists. Londa Schiebinger, Stanford University, offered valuable insights into the world of colonial scientists. Laura Smoller knows more about the discourse of magic and the saints than seems possible. Though I was a stranger, they all greeted me like an old friend. I thank them all. Paula Findlen gave me the opportunity to enjoy the amenity of the wonderful place called Stanford and teach a seminar there. I thank her deeply for this learning opportunity and her generous support. Tamar Herzog, with her admirably steadfast will, persuaded me that English was the proper language for this book so that it might reach an international audience beyond the German-­ speaking academic world. I thank her for her generous support over the years and her lucid critique of the manuscript. William Taylor of the University of California, Berkeley, invited me to give a presentation at the Latin American Studies Seminar at Berkeley after kindly having read the first forty pages of this book. I am grateful for his conversations and the critique I received from him and the members of this stimulating circle. I thank the staff of the John Carter Brown Library in Providence, Rhode Island, who helped dig out unanticipated riches in books originating in colonial Peru. The Harvard Atlantic History Seminar was one of the harbors that provided time to explore, discuss, and laugh about history. I thank Bernard Bailyn, Allan Greer, my young colleagues, and especially David Tavárez for his keen and supportive comments on the entire manuscript. Thanks go as well to Nicholas Griffiths and Gabriela Ramos, both in the United Kingdom, who gave valuable advice. The members of the Cambridge Seminar on Astrology gave valuable comments on a draft, related to this study, of an article on the history of science in the New World. I want to thank José Carlos Farrago, whose enthusiasm for the Quechua language opened a new door into an unknown world. I extend my gratitude to Oriana Bleecher, who showed me how to fare in

x  The power of huacas

the rough seas of English, and to Alice Falk, who is an extremely sharp and helpful copy editor. In Stanford, good fortune brought me into a seminar taught by Nathan Wachtel. I joined his mind- and heart-­opening voyage into the past. I want to thank him for his pointed question: And what about the Andean side? I also want to express my gratitude to him for having read and commented on the entire manuscript. I want to thank Tristan Platt for generously sharing his great knowledge about the Andean world with me and helpfully asking the right questions when reading the manuscript. Likewise, I am indebted to Sabine Hyland for her valuable comments. All shortcomings, however, are my responsibility. When colleagues in the United States encouraged me to apply for a job at an American university, I landed at Stetson University in Deland, Florida. There, Bob and June Sitler, Bill and Nize Nylen, Margaret Venzke, Kimberly and Michael Reiter, Grady Ballenger, and particularly Elisabeth Poeter and Susanne Eulen opened their doors for the unknown Ms. Brosseder. I thank them all for their warm welcome, their great collegiality, and their friendship. I thank the students in my Latin American history seminars, who helped the almost shipwrecked German to see that Latin American history requires knowledge, enthusiasm, and an awareness of social injustice. I thank Hyman Sternthal, who encouraged me to learn to see in a different direction. But there are also many friends in many areas of the world I was so lucky to meet, who established a stable home for the passerby. I want to express special thanks to Philippe Buc. Without his encouragement, help, and constant critique, I would have underestimated that it “all makes deep sense.” During the long absences, my German friends Stefan Mauerer, Karl Sattler, Brigitte Irmler and Bruno Zackskorn, and Christa Benecke have been truly needed and trustworthy companions. I thank Tankred Steinicke for the maps. A scholar who only briefly drops his or her anchor in a mooring is grateful to the people who provide shelter for this fleeting stay. Shan March let me live in her cabin near Stanford, a wonderful place with unexpected visitors who made the long days behind the computer screen yet another adventure. I want to thank her dearly. Supporting me through both smooth and rough seas while this book was produced was my family. The constant help of Gerlinde, Johannes, and Ursula Brosseder was much needed and much appreciated. Leni Klingele accompanied me on the many journeys in her mind. Wherever I was, she found encouraging words. Eberhard Weiger lives what I study, and I thank him dearly for his great help. During all these voy-

acknowledgments  xi

ages my husband kept my ship on the right course. I am deeply grateful for his patience, sensitivity, openness to social injustice, happiness, and strength. I hope he knows what I owe him. Our two sons bring the greatest joy. Therefore, to my husband, to my sons, and to our dear friends in the southern Andes, especially in the Vilcanota Cordillera, I want to dedicate this book. Note: Unless otherwise credited, all photographs are by Claudia Brosseder.

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The Power of Huacas

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Introduction

Almost all of the Spaniards who came to the Andes from 1532 onward and left written records found the many different Quechua and Aymara terms for denoting what we can call, for lack of a better term, religious specialists highly problematic: achik, achicoc, achiycamayok, amauta, aucachic, ychuri, calparicu, camasca, soncoyoc cauchu, ru­ napmicuc, condeviza, hacarícuc, cuyrícuc, hacchini, hampicamayoc, hampioc or hampicoc, guacamayoc, huasca, huachachik or hua­cha­ chi­cuc, huatuc or watoq, layca, macsa, villac, móscoc, omo, umu or homo, miuycamayoc, pacharícuc, rápiac, socayoc, vacanqui camayoc, vallaviza, viropiricoc, vizaconas, yacarcaes, yachaccunacta, tala, tutu, phuu, supayona alicomata haque, toqueni, and hamuni.1 As the Spaniards transformed Quechua and Aymara into written languages, they spelled these terms in various ways. They also debated how the words should be translated, most often rendering them “diviners,” “priests,” “people who cast lots,” “wise men,” “confessors,” “sorcerers,” “high priests,” “herbalists,” “people who kill with poison,” “midwives,” and “practitioners of love magic.” Spaniards subcategorized “diviners” according to their “instruments”; for example, spiders, beans, spittle, entrails, llama dung, dreams, tremors of the arm, coca leaves, and grains of maize.2 Colonial Aymara was particularly rich in verbs indicating actions that Spaniards interpreted as divinations, including arokhaatha, coca phahuatha, hacchitha, hacchirapitha, huankona ul­ latha, huanko cchaatha, piuirutatha, huankona anocarapana ullatha, hamuttatha, hamuttatha and acahamani, and sapinitha.3 These different terms provided more detail than the blanket term “diviner” by specifying the instrument of divination. Yet despite this diversity and specificity in native terminology and native arts, lexical univocality reigned in Spanish discussions of indige-

2  The power of huacas

nous beliefs and practices. Most Spaniards simply resorted to the concept of hechizero (sorcerer) to label Andean religious specialists, and hechizería (sorcery) to encompass his or her acts. Evidently, Spaniards used the category of hechizería as a blunt tool, ignoring differences between Quechua, Aymara, and many other religious specialists.4 In early sixteenth-­century Spain and colonial Peru, the meanings of hechizería were basically threefold: “false god, false cult, false actions,” or “idolatry, superstition, sorcery.” In his orderly cosmos, Thomas Aquinas elevated superstitio above sorcery, divination, magic, and idolatry.5 According to him, superstitio was “a-­religio,” and the label belonged properly to any cult or belief deviating from the official religion, Catholicism. In this way, a concept of hechizería with implications of superstition and idolatry came to dominate Peruvian sources and Spanish actions toward certain Andean people. Even more, the dynamics of this Spanish discourse about hechizería and its constant dialogue with the Andean people had sociopolitical consequences that changed the Andean world in an unprecedented way.6 To date, a few books have reconstructed the European discourse on Andean hechizería and its effects on Andean religious specialists.7 Important studies on which this book builds have treated different aspects of the complex history of colonial hechizería as it reached into many contexts that historians of the colonial Andes have examined: the Spanish and Creole extirpation-­of-­idolatry campaigns in the archdiocese of Lima during the seventeenth century; the emergence of an Andean Catholic world; the history of gender relations and, in part, of witches in a colonial setting; the history of the relationship between Andean and Spanish political institutions premised on colonialism; the history of the persecution of non-­Andean Spanish, Creole, and Afro-­Peruvian ritual specialists; and the ongoing history of Andean and Inca religious- and sociopolitical-­economic structures, by Pierre Duviols, Kenneth Mills, Juan Carlos García Cabrera, Frank Salomon, Luis Millones, Gabriela Ramos, José Carlos de la Puente Luna, Sabine MacCormack, Ana Sánchez, Nicholas Griffiths, Juan Carlos Estenssoro Fuchs, Laura Larco, Bonnie Glass-­Coffin, Irene Silverblatt, Maria Manarelli, Iris Gareis, Polia Meconi, Tristan Platt, Therèse Bouysse-­ Cassagne, Thierry Saignes, Gabriel Martínez, Josep Barnadas, and many others on the Inca and Andean world.8 No single book, however, has analyzed the evolution of Andean rituals and their symbolic makeup during colonial times in more detail in an effort to reconstruct the effects of the discourse of hechizería on

Introduction 3

the Andean world and of accompanying transcultural interactions and dialectical dynamics between Spaniards, Creoles, and Andeans. Analyzing Andean rituals and especially their symbolic makeup allows this book to show in which respect the world of Andean religious specialists changed; how it changed, on both the level of concepts and beneath the level of theoretical discourse, on the basis of practices and due to the practical give-­and-­take between Spaniards, Andeans, and, in part, Afro-­Peruvians; and why it changed. The book argues that certain elements within the complex world of Andean religious specialists’ rituals changed owing to the Spanish invasion and to cultural influxes that came in its wake, and yet maintained something that might be called an Andean logic. Among these elements, and one especially preserved among Andean religious specialists in the highlands, is an Andean concept of the embodiment of specific powers (which we might call a concept of the “holy”),9 of nature, and of an Andean understanding of sickness, social harmony, and the coexistence of cultures. Most of these principles continued to work as fundamental organizational principles of the Andean world and even dictated the responses that ritual specialists gave to transcultural interactions and, in particular, the European invasion and the introduction of Christianity—despite changes that can be observed in the function of Andean religious specialists in colonial Andean society, within their rituals, their performances, and their symbolic makeup. The European introduction of a distinction between natural and supernatural spheres most radically challenged Andean concepts of nature.10 A nuanced tracing from an Andean perspective of where change and resistance to change—from precolonial to early and later colonial times—were located is one of the principal aims of this book, as is the analysis of the evolution of the European discourse on hechi­ zería in Peru and in Europe, as the vicissitudes of the European discourse reflected back and forth across the Atlantic. This European discourse on magic serves as a mirror of the Andean world. It was also an important vehicle for change in the Andean world. As the book strives to present explanations for either change or resistance on both sides, it analyzes the dynamics of the dialogue between Andean religious specialists and European and Creole Christians by analyzing shifts—existing or nonexisting—within the structure of Andean concepts of sickness, health, the embodiment of powers, nature, coexistence of two cultures, and social harmony; and within Christian concepts of representation, the natural, the preternatural and

4  The power of huacas

the supernatural, salvation, social harmony, and the “holy”—­something that in both worlds, even though it was differently conceived, required human respect and veneration and was, perhaps, beyond human reach. Analysis of these parameters of the interaction between European and native perceptions reveals that within the encounter of these different cultures, the grounding principles changed more radically in Europe and among Europeans in the Andes than among Andeans, where ritual specialists and commoners may have adopted Christian images and rites but retained the same basic understanding of what was important and how it could be defended, what was holy and what was the relationship between what Europeans perceived as natural versus the supernatural sphere. The book will also examine what assimilation really meant for different inhabitants of the Andean world. This book relies on the perspective of a historiography that is at once historicist (taking into account historical change) and structuralist (uncovering underlying structures with a quality of longue durée). In doing so, the intent is to contribute to our understanding of the dynamics of transcultural processes in the Andean world—a world that was neither trapped in cultural stagnation nor upended by total cultural change.11

The focus of the book My investigation of the history of hechizería from the late sixteenth to the late eighteenth century and its related intellectual parameters from the perspective of the transcultural processes rests on many different types of sources. The main informants of this history are the various chroniclers, the Huarochirí Manuscript, Jesuit cartas annuas (or litterae annuae, the annual letters, which are most explicit during the first half of the seventeenth century), reports by individual Jesuits, and other Jesuit manuscripts. Crucial are visitation records produced by the extirpation-­of-­idolatry campaigns in the archdiocese of Lima (sometimes identical with the information contained in the cartas an­ nuas). I also make use of the records of civil visitas that were conducted mainly to collect tributes if they contain information relevant to our understanding of the world of Andean religious specialists. The same holds true for the relaciones geográficas, as these official reports to the Council of the Indies in Seville sometimes contained information on local Andean customs and knowledge. Scholarly treatises of both Peruvian and European origin (provided that they found their way into the Andes) were consulted, in addition to sermons by secular priests—

Introduction 5

mainly in Cuzco and Lima—and by priests who belonged to the various orders. Inquisition records from Lima documenting the persecution of Spanish, Creole, and Afro-­Peruvian ritual specialists; colonial paintings, statues, and other objects from the central and southern highlands; and annotated books that I found in former colonial libraries in several Peruvian cities all provided vital information on how the Spanish and Creole discourse on hechizería evolved in its interaction with the Andean world and how the world of Andean religious specialists and of commoners changed.12 In all this, as the reader will notice, I concentrate on Jesuit sources and visitation records, given that the Jesuits undoubtedly were the most meticulous in describing the acts performed by Andean religious specialists from the late sixteenth century onward. In the late sixteenth and early seventeenth centuries, the Jesuits considered Andean religious specialists to be their greatest rivals and focused a great deal of effort on persecuting hechizeros. This book, however, does not attempt to add to the existing histories of the Jesuit order in colonial Peru; doing so would require comparing their Peruvian engagements with their many other evangelical projects in other parts of the Spanish and Portuguese empires, as well as in Europe and Asia.13 Instead, the Jesuit views presented in this book are used mainly to provide an entry into the Andean world. In sketching the world of Andean religious specialists from an Andean perspective, the book has to overcome a number of methodological traps—the major one being that colonial Andeans, with the exception of a very few documents from the early seventeenth century, left no written record of their world that is understood today.14 But one of the most meaningful spheres for grasping the world of Andean religious specialists during the colonial period is that of rituals centered on “instruments,” or objects, used by healers, diviners, and priests. Such objects included stones, sebo (fat), maize, coca, guinea pigs, powders, feathers, toads, certain plants, and yllas (objects of various forms; sometimes stones that resembled maize or llamas). Members of two institutions paid particular attention to the enumeration of these objects, which were considered to be “idols,” often recording their Quechua (and, sometimes, Aymara) names: the Jesuits and the visitators (or notaries) in the extirpation-­of-­idolatry campaigns in Lima. The Jesuit reports indirectly drew on insights from private confessions that were products of psychological pressure. The visitators’ records were the outcome of public confessions and persecutions that threatened the Indians with corporal punishment. And even though the Jesuits’ or visitators’

6  The power of huacas

notaries did not describe these items as explicitly as an archaeologist would do today and, unlike ethnological data on modern-­day mesas,15 often did not capture their exact place within a ritual performance, the obsessive documentation of the objects for the sake of their destruction provides many clues about cultural resistances and transformations, as these records show little influence of a Spanish interpretation. In contrast, when chroniclers, Jesuits, visitators, or notaries tried to record Andean narratives about ritual practices and performances, or to grasp an underlying intellectual foundation, Spanish concepts heavily influenced their narrative. As this book will show, most of these objects—as well as practices of Andean ritual specialists and paradigms—were not necessarily only of local or regional importance, or even of importance only for an individual Andean religious specialist. Instead, each had a long tradition, and some of the objects had long-­established symbolic meanings in various archaeological cultures or within various sociopolitical or ethnic Andean groups. These symbols and objects were embodied powers that retained a notion of sacredness and were conceptually tied to huacas.16 In examining some of these symbols and objects (such as stones, birds, villca, toads, the color white, huacanquis, yllas, bezoar stones, fat, coca), this book seeks to capture shifts in these objects over time, including their symbolic meanings and use in rituals. The first step toward that end is to decode some of these significations by carefully drawing on seventeenth-­century practices, local Andean myths, Inca history, colonial Quechua/Aymara-­Spanish dictionaries, and a close analysis of a European rendering.17 In some instances, we will look at archaeological and semiotic fields of some of the above-­ mentioned objects and symbols. The second step will be to examine how the importance of these symbols and objects changed for religious specialists during the colonial period. The book also contextualizes Andean religious specialists’ practices as they, in the representation of the Europeans, were the ones that got most heavily imprinted by a European understanding (such as communication with huacas, taking “confessions,” use of hallucinogens, fabricating figurines, healing, divination, inflicting harm). By contextualizing Andean symbols, objects, and practices in an Andean and (sometimes necessarily) Inca setting, as well as in its representation in the European discourse, Andean cultural paradigms are uncovered, layer by layer, as they were: notions of embodiment, nature, sickness, health, coexistence of culture, fertility, and social harmony.

Introduction 7

Assimilations in the realms of symbolic meanings, practices, and beliefs are particularly difficult to grasp, especially in a society that possessed many local traditions. Adding to the challenge in the case of Andean religious specialists is the variability of their practices: their rituals depended on the cultural conventions of each specific ayllu, or even on the customs of one particular individual. But as archaeologists and ethnohistorians such as John Murra and many others have shown, one of the central features of the pre-­Columbian (pre-­Inca, Andean, and Inca) world was its remarkable exchange network, which enabled goods, ideas, and symbols to travel rapidly from the coast through the Andes to the Amazon region and vice versa.18 This ease of transmission, in turn, caused many symbols and practices to be shared by different sociopolitical communities and ethnic groups.19 During Inca and colonial times, Indians were forced to move between various regions at an astonishing rate, leading to more intermingling.20 As this book argues, religious specialists relied in essence on a supralocal cosmos of pre-­ Columbian symbolism and practices, with slight regional variations. Religious specialists throughout the Andes trusted in the meaning and power of a fairly limited set of symbols, though each specialist decided individually on the arrangement of these symbols within a ritual.21 The performance thus varied. The careful employment of archaeological and ethnological evidence to scrutinize the shifts in Andean beliefs and symbolic meanings that resulted from assimilation and the contextualization of Andean practices in Andean and European contexts, and especially the European discourse on magic, is new to this volume, as is the recognition of parallel processes of assimilation between Andean, Spanish, and Creole specialists with respect to love magic, and—with respect to sympathetic magic—Afro-­Peruvian ritual specialists. Throughout the colonial period, as this book shows, religious specialists took different approaches to including symbols in their mesas and practices. As the array of sources suggests, many religious specialists (particularly those from the central and the southern highlands),22 despite changes in their social status and in their function, continued to adhere to long-­established Andean symbolic meanings and powers throughout the colonial period and beyond (even to this day, in some local traditions). In the highland regions, although the material carrier of the symbol sometimes changed over the course of the later seventeenth century—for example, hard liquor might substitute for chicha (maize beer), tobacco leaves for ground tobacco, and smoke for colored powders—its meaning and associated power did not. Often the place of

8  The power of huacas

the symbol within the ritual conveyed a symbolic meaning that seems to have been established in the distant Andean past. As this book argues, mesas and their objects in the central and southern highlands condensed the essence of Andean notions of embodiment and the holy. As I will show, during the colonial period these symbols used in rituals proved to be the last bastion of resistance against Christian evangelization. Indirectly, resistance grew out of the Andean notion of embodied powers in Andean huacas. In contrast, the colonial Andean religious specialists of the northern and central coast more rapidly adopted the symbols of the Christian church.23 Moreover, as this book shows, during the colonial period the European discourse about sympathetic magic, as well as the practices of Spanish and Afro-­Peruvian ritual specialists, affected the rituals of Andean religious specialists in both coastal and highland regions, as at different times they began to use such items as pierced toads or puppets, tobacco leaves, and spirits. Another peculiarity of the reactions of indigenous religious specialists to transcultural processes will also be investigated: especially in the highlands, religious specialists were more open to including invocations of Jesus, Mary, and the saints—and thus of something “ideal”—than to using material objects from the Christian tradition. Again, this peculiar assimilation was firmly rooted in an Andean notion of the embodiment of power. The varied responses over time and space of religious specialists to Christianity will be an important focus of this book in addressing a number of questions: In which areas did members of the various cultural traditions adopt ideas, practices, and symbols from a previously foreign culture? How and where did Europeans and Andeans allow assimilations within the concept of embodiment and the realm of the holy? In which areas did these assimilations follow a cultural logic, and in which are they instead best described by using the concept of mélanges?24 The investigation of these multiple levels of interactions between Spanish, Andean, and rudimentary Afro-­Peruvian cultures through the lens of Jesuits, ecclesiastics, and Andean religious specialists pulls together the metropolitan and local histories of the central and south‑ ern Andes, some small villages, and several Jesuit missionary outposts in colonial Peru. I concentrate (in geographic terms) on the central, south-­central, and southern Andes, making reference to the coast from modern-­day northern to southern Peru.25 As viewed by the Inca empire, this area represents the heartland of Inca Tawantinsuyo. As viewed by colonial ecclesiastics, the area under investigation includes

Introduction 9

the dioceses of Lima, Cuzco, Charcas, and Trujillo. As viewed by colonial administrators, this area was mainly identical with the Audiencia of Lima.26 I give some consideration to occurrences in the Audiencias of Quito and Charcas, but little to the Audiencia of Chile. In the terminology of Jesuit political organization, I concentrate on the province of Peru, established in 1568. I make some reference to the missionary activities among the so-­called Mojos, celebrated by Jesuits as famous hechizeros, though I largely exclude the missionary regions of Maynas in the western Amazon and of Chiquitos near Santa Cruz de la Sierra. More sparing are my explorations into the Jesuit provinces of Paraguay and Nueva Granada. Colonial chroniclers considerably simplified the diversity of different ethnic groups of the Andean peoples, but from a linguistic standpoint of colonial times this book deals with Quechua- and Aymara-­speaking Indians.27 These categories embrace a considerable number of so-­called ethnic groups of the Inca and colonial era, including, among others, the Chanca, Vilca, Collagua, Chachapoya, Huamachuco, Conchuco, Chinchaycocha, Yauyo, Lupa, Cana, Canchi, Aymará, Sora, Yanahuara, Omasuyu, Atabillo, and Huanca.28 This history of the Andean-­Christian dialogue requires at once a transatlantic and local perspective, as well as a careful conceptualization. Investigations into the history of both European and Andean religion and science, into their medical knowledge and practices, and into early modern European natural philosophy are all necessary. Some scholars familiar with the complexities of Peruvian history may view writing such a book as sheer intellectual hubris. Others may question the utility of such a broad perspective, arguing that only a microhistorical approach—centering on one local tradition—can render valuable insights into the idiosyncrasies of these transcultural dynamics between Andeans and Christians.29 Yet if we are to reconstruct assimilations, changes, and resistances within Andean ritual practices and within the world of Andean religious specialists, we have to deal with the limitations of the available colonial sources. Unfortunately, they do not allow us to trace continuities and discontinuities in religious specialists’ rituals and beliefs within a certain geographic area, or even for a particular individual. An individual with his or her ritual appears—perhaps in only a glimpse—on the surface of history, and then is lost again in its unrecorded depths. Sometimes Spaniards revisited certain villages and added to the existing written record, but in most cases these new reports concerned other individuals, other huacas, and other rituals. And at least for the beginning of the early sixteenth cen-

10  The power of huacas

tury (and often beyond)—despite all the differences between Andean religious practices, rituals, and concepts of local origin—they can be clearly distinguished from the Christian rituals and concepts that missionaries, priests, and conquistadors tried to communicate to Andeans. In the beginning, Christianity is thus distinct from local Andean religions. This distinction is a necessary heuristic tool to discern assimilations, changes, and resistances—engagements that were mutual. In seeking to reconstruct these differences, and given the nature of the available sources, the book merges several local Andean traditions, almost in a macroperspective, to investigate their differences with Christianity. Only in this context does it mention an “Andean logic” and “Andean paradigms.” I hope to convince my readers that data from these various areas, cultural groupings, and different fields of knowledge are not arbitrarily lumped together, but ultimately join into a coherent conceptual framework that reveals the idiosyncrasies of the encounter of different cultures.

The organization of this book This book is mainly about discourses and their evolution. At the same time, it is about practices, as it examines their changes. Its investigation covers much of the colonial period—that is, from the early 1540s to the late eighteenth century—and the choice of time frame is not arbitrary. During the colonial period, the church, civil authorities, and especially the Jesuits turned hechizería into a public issue. After 1800, the sources use a different language in discussing hechizería and healers. By then, the often ferocious, puzzling, concerned, and stirring tone that sixteenth- and seventeenth-­century sources employed when talking about indigenous, Creole, mestizo, and mulatto forms of hechi­ zería and healing practices had all but disappeared. Within this time frame, the dialectic that evolved between Andean religious specialists and Christian (especially Jesuit) priests dictates the book’s organization; that is, the book in its structure tries to capture responses of Andeans to European actions and arguments and vice versa. The book at large is chronologically arranged, but in the attempt to get at Andean notions it is often requisite to introduce flashbacks within single chapters. Moreover, the book depends on European representations but dismantles them layer by layer so as to get to an understanding of Andean beliefs. At the end, the book weaves together the different strands of

Introduction 11

contexts in which the history of Andean religious specialists, their beliefs, and practices was placed. None of the existing frameworks in the wide range of scholarship consulted on the relationship between religion and “magic” proved adequate.30 At the end of this introduction I provide an overview of basic sixteenth- and early seventeenth-­century Spanish assumptions regarding the concept of hechizería. Over the course of the book I show how this sixteenth-­century, basically medieval notion of hechizería changed. In chapter 1, I jump directly into the seventeenth century and show the urgency Jesuits and others felt in making Andean religious specialists confess in order to liberate Andean souls and lands from the grip of the demon and to outwit the Andean hechizeros, whom they viewed as rivals. By trying to (re)define alleged Andean canons of sins, these authors collected—indirectly, en passant, and detached from the individual sinner—information on rituals and on the standing of ritual specialists in Andean society as they informed the annual letters. Together with the avowals of Andean suspects in the legal framework of ecclesiastical visitation processes, those turned out to be valuable documents about colonial Andean rituals. From an Andean perspective, these catalogs of sins reveal the notion and centrality of sickness for the well-­ being of Andean society during Inca times; a notion—as will be shown in chapter 2—that acquired a new quality due to the European conquest. From a European perspective, Spaniards in those times were still interested in highlighting similarities between Andean and Christian religion in an attempt to accommodate Christianity to Andean converts. Chapter 2 takes a retrospective look into the sixteenth century to discuss how and why the issue of hechizería gained momentum in colonial society in the first place. The chapter discusses the links between the first documented Andean response of religious specialists to Christianity in the so-­called Taki Onkoy rebellion, Viceroy Toledo’s and Albornoz’s approaches to idolatry extirpation, and the execution of the last insurgent Inca, Tupac Amaru. As the Andeans presented Spanish presence as a new kind of sickness, and as the religious specialists’ argument in favor of two “republics” (another colonial Andean parameter) threatened Spanish political ambitions, Viceroy Toledo wanted to impose capital punishment for the teachers of Andean hechizerías; before long, this move was put on hold by the Jesuits, who soon after their arrival managed to gain political prominence in colonial Peru. The Jesuits ultimately became the ideologues behind the Peruvian discourse on hechizería in the archdiocese of Lima, as well as in their missions, until

12  The power of huacas

the second half of the seventeenth century. Civil authorities regained prime responsibility for a newly understood business of hechizería only during the latter half of the eighteenth century (as will be shown in chapter 8). Chapter 3 reconstructs key Andean notions about transformation, birds, stones, embodiment, huacas, and the necessity of active commemoration of the power of huacas as a precondition for the functioning of Andean society—beliefs that came under acute threat due to the conversions of Andean commoners to Christianity. This chapter also analyzes the Andean belief in the limits of the powers of Andean religious specialists, and how they were distinguished from the power of huacas, thereby showing that the prime task of an Andean religious specialist in early colonial times was to ensure and restore life with the help of huacas. It was on this fundamental level of what constituted the Andean concept of embodiment and the interrelated Andean concept of nature that a lack of understanding between Andeans and Christians with respect to notions of the preter- and supernatural, nature, and sickness was rooted. This chapter thus lays the groundwork for understanding the organizational principle of embodiment in the Andean world during early and, in many respects, as will be shown later, throughout colonial times. Only on the basis of this and the other principles mentioned above can we question, understand, and measure the impact of assimilations on the Andean world. In chapter 4, I show how Christians in the archdiocese of Lima as well as in Jesuit missions, as both Andean religious specialists and commoners responded to evangelization, slowly sharpened their ideological tools and their methods of persecution. Andeans who were first thought to have been the victims of the devil, to whom they spoke in stones, became the willful agents of the devil and made him enter idols. I add to existing accounts of this particular aspect of history31 the evidence of interconnectedness with the European discourse on magic, even in its earliest beginnings, and evidence that this trend simultaneously depended on and produced a parallel development: the convergence of the discourse on indigenous belief with the discourse on mulatto, Creole, and Spanish (and thus non-­Andean) hechizeros and witches. The representation of the Andean religious specialist within this discourse not only afflicted the lives of many, but also changed the perception of Andean religious specialists through Andean commoners and thus contributes to our understanding of why and how changes occurred. The chapter ends by discussing the impact of this discourse beyond the archdiocese of Lima, especially in Jesuit missions. In chapter 5, I enter the spheres of Andean commoners

Introduction 13

and religious specialists to discuss their respective assimilations of and resistances to Catholicism, arguing that there were at least three “republics” during colonial times. For Andean religious specialists of the central and southern Andes, even though their role in society had changed and they worked clandestinely, assimilations never replaced Andean symbolic meanings and challenged but did not alter the concept of embodiment, and Catholic objects were not incorporated into southern Andean rituals. Therefore, along the lines of the Andean notion of embodiment, adopting Christian notions proved for some Andean religious specialists simpler than the adoption of objects. When Jesuits saw this resilience and, above all, became more critical about their order’s own evangelization methods and the perceived failure of a forceful persecution of Andean religious specialists, they resorted to different approaches. In part, they were willing to modify their own missionary strategies and symbols so as to disempower Andean religious specialists. Chapter 6 continues with the Andean perspective, discussing the function and structure of Andean rituals during the seventeenth century and providing insights into the Andean notion of sickness and healing rituals performed by ritual specialists from the central Andes (to the extent that the sources allow). The role of healers, which has always been fundamental to the role of Andean religious specialists in precolonial and early colonial Andean society, became the official profile of Andean religious specialists, one result of previous persecutions. It will be argued that many Andean ritual specialists continued to adhere to a notion of sickness that required a sacred geography in the lands they inhabited and required them to carry the sacred geography of Andean huacas in the minds and bags of Andean religious specialists, thereby maintaining an early colonial Andean notion of embodiment and of sickness despite assimilations. The Andean vision of two “republics,” which had already been formulated in times of the Taki Onkoy movement was now projected into the realm of sicknesses and healings and the competence of Andean versus Spanish healers. For some, the Incas rose to guarantors of health. Yet the role of Andean religious specialists, as will be shown in chapter 7, continued to change. The sixteenth- and seventeenth-­century discourse on hechizería with its many facets, unfolded up to here, and interactions between Afro-­ Peruvian and Creole and Andean religious specialists challenged an Andean understanding of nature and fostered the introduction of a notion of sympathetic magic, challenging for the first time most radically the Andean concepts of natural processes. Simultaneously, the

14  The power of huacas

notion of sympathetic magic changed the way evil was believed to be inflicted during Inca times (and, for others, still valid during colonial times) and the way Andeans thought that evil was brought into the world (something that is also shown in chapter 3). By way of the fusion of concepts and symbols (such as evil harm and the symbol of toads) and practices (such as piercing puppets or toads) in instances related to sympathetic magic changed once more the role of Andean religious specialists in their society. Increasingly, they were sought after as protectors against evil as well as masters of it. Finally, in chapter 8, turning to the evolution of the Andean-­Christian transcultural dynamics beyond the late seventeenth century, and after having analyzed how fundamental Andean principles (such as sickness, embodiment, a belief in huacas and the commemoration of their powers, and the vision of the separation of two cultures) dictated reactions of either assimilation or resistance to transcultural influxes, I show how the Jesuit interest in hechi­ zería was replaced both by a new kind of naturalism and, framed in the words of the European discourse on magic, by an interest in natural and technical magic. Criticism of demonology was introduced into the Andes indirectly via the reception of Athanasius Kircher’s writings on technical magic. Nationwide interest in indigenous hechizeros dwin‑ dled, and it flared up again only in the provinces in contexts that exhibited a notion of hechizería that was new—different from the one that had dominated late sixteenth- and seventeenth-­century discourse— and enforced by different agents: no longer the Jesuits, but now civil institutions and a local clergy under the tutelage of local bishops (Arequipa, Quito, Cuzco, and Cajamarca), and enforced for different ends: no longer for the salvation of “barbarian territories” or for the sake of “two republics,” but for social peace and cultural homogenization in Creole society, and as a response to a new kind of Andean ritual specialist, one that was a product of colonial encounters. Throughout the book I have been careful in my use of language to avoid Eurocentrism, “essentialism,” and other red flags that scholars— sometimes rightly, sometimes polemically—have waved at those entering the history of the colonial world.32 Despite talk of the religious specialist or the Spaniards or the church, we should never forget that alternative voices existed in every sector of society. Whenever the book speaks of the Andean highland ritual specialist, this implies the majority of them but never all. Just as the worlds of indigenous religious specialists varied, the Spanish church also encompassed great diversity. In fact, the persecution of hechizeros was often shaped largely by the

Introduction 15

personal inclinations of one particular priest, bishop, or archbishop.33 One group did push toward uniformity: the Jesuits, who, with their organization, incredible communication network, and powerful political influence during much of the early seventeenth century, forced a good deal of homogeneity upon the colonial world (despite the presence of dissenters in their own ranks).34 However, in the interest of uncovering both assimilation processes and structural differences between Andean and Christian concepts of nature, the holy, and human powers, I have made no effort to capture all of the deviations from the “standard” European or Andean discourses, though meaningful divergences or idiosyncrasies have been addressed. This book seeks to capture the flux of meanings of ideas, symbols, and rituals for both Andeans and Europeans, examining shifts in the argumentation and politics of representatives of European culture, and focusing on the continuities and discontinuities created by this dialogue. Above all, my aim is to put the indigenous world, the Spanish world, and sometimes even the Afro-­ Peruvian world into a context of constant dialogue, without making judgments about what is correct, false, brutal, good, or bad. We may certainly employ these adjectives when talking about political acts, but when it comes to perceptions, such labels rarely help us achieve deeper knowledge. Since many people from different ethnic and cultural backgrounds were involved in colonial-­era Peruvian religious dynamics, I have chosen to apply the term “Spaniard” or “Creole” not only to those either born in Spain or in the New World, but also to any intellectual trained in the European tradition who brought that tradition to South America. Whenever I speak of “Creole society,” I refer to the new colonial society established in Peru, disregarding its ethnic or cultural composition. The term “Andean”—and sometimes “Indian” (in sources often called indios), “Amerindian,” “native South American” or “indigenous person”—when not otherwise qualified, refers to an individual who advocated Andean or Andean-­ Christian traditions. But when sources have identified “Mestizos,” I kept that term. Blacks, in the sources sometimes labeled as “Negros,” are referred to either as Afro-­ Peruvians or as blacks. When the sources name mulattos and specify other castas, I have maintained the original denotation. I did not attempt to identify their ethnicity—a task for other studies to fulfill. I embarked on this project well aware of the intellectual minefields in this area of scholarship; the book’s success at traversing them is left for the reader to decide.

16  The power of huacas

On the use of terms; or the definition of hechizería at the outset of colonial times One Iberian author, Martín de Castañega, who was especially popular among Spanish writers in Mexico and Peru, set ground for the transatlantic spread of the basic meaning of hechizería as “false god, false cult, false actions” or “idolatry, superstition, sorcery.” Writing on the background of a long and intricate Iberian history of hechizería35 that involved Christians, Moors, lawyers, poets, inquisitors, theologians, and natural philosophers (among many others), a pious Franciscan and a follower of Thomas Aquinas, Castañega perceived a deep cleavage in his world between, on the one hand, the Catholic Church and, on the other, the diabolical church.36 Hechizeros and witches belonged to the latter. His “subtle” and “thorough” treatise on the subject, Super­ sticiones y hechizerías, was published in 1529. This small book could serve as a vade mecum for medical doctors, healers, village wizards, and diviners, providing a ready reference to check the orthodoxy of certain rituals.37 In the course of these evaluations, Castañega labeled hechi­ zeros base ministers of the demon, performing “vain and superstitious deeds.” Castañega provided a long-­winded explication: “[S]ome have an occult pact with the demon, when they are—as they think, without abjuring—‘apostasizing,’ or losing the Catholic faith, believe in, and perform diabolical ceremonies and invocations; but these have an occult pact[,] . . . for their ceremonies entail apostasies from Christ . . . and what they do is against Christ and his law; these we commonly call hechiceros.”38 Witches, in contrast, consciously renounced Catholicism when entering a pact with the devil.39 Castañega’s criterion for distinguishing between orthodox and sinful acts of hechizería was adherence to Catholic rites and Catholic sacraments.40 The rites of the Jews, Moors, and hechizeros were not “sacramientos” but “execramientos”— excrements in the diabolical church.41 Castañega’s program equating non-­Catholic beliefs and rituals with hechizería was unspectacularly medieval.42 His chief authorities were the Bible, Augustine, the church councils, and Thomas Aquinas—and not, for example, natural philosophy.43 Despite being somewhat pedestrian, Castañega’s vision of the Catholic and the diabolical church was adopted by José de Acosta (1540–1600) in his Historia natural y moral de las Indias (1590) when he deplored that Indians were in the grip of the demon and had to be rescued.44 In the second half of the sixteenth century, the Indians of Peru were not well enough instructed in key concepts of the Catholic

Introduction 17

Church and in Catholic rituals to consciously turn away from them, and it was thought that they only implicitly adhered to the demon. While Acosta viewed Castañega’s framework for definitions of hechi­ zería as the best fit for the landscape of the Andes, Castañega’s treatise also served as a quarry for Acosta’s most reliable informant, whose own work most strongly influenced the key Third Council of Lima: Polo de Ondegardo (ca. 1520–75) and his De los errores y supersticiones de los indios (written around 1566 and later published as Instrucción contra las ceremonias y ritos que usan los indios and jointly distributed with the Confessionario para los curas de los indios of 1585).45 Despite Polo de Ondegardo’s keen and careful attention to details in the world of Andean religious specialists, he consulted Castañega, along with other authorities from the European discourse on magic, for an understanding of some individual rituals as well as some contextualizations. Castañega, as well as Polo de Ondegardo, held that hechizeros were always old and vile people.46 In the case of the Andes, the Incas chose to employ them when they had grown to be superfluous members of the Inca empire.47 Both authors argued that poverty lay at the root of all hechizerías. In the Andes, the poor old hechizeros originally fed themselves from the sacrifices that they were to offer the gods. Under colonial rule, these destitute men received not sacrifices but instead silver, clothes, or food in exchange for their services. For both authors, the meaning of the sacrifices transcends their socioeconomic value. Sacrifices served to (re)connect the Indian with the devil, demon, or, in similar vein, an Andean huaca.48 The congruence between the works of Polo de Ondegardo and Castañega extended further, to such subtle details as how Polo de Ondegardo organized his report, as well as how he describes the Indian manner of praying to Viracocha, how he distinguishes between hechizeros and healers, and how he discusses Catholic and superstitious healing methods.49 Yet despite the influence of a medieval concept of hechizería on Acosta and Polo de Ondegardo, and their respective influence on church politics and the evangelization standards as laid down in the Third Council of Lima, as we will see later, other contemporaries did not necessarily follow Acosta’s and Polo de Ondegardo’s keen interest in defining hechizería, in considering hechizería a social problem, and finally, in putting hechizería on the political agenda. Prior to Polo de Ondegardo, and even prior to Pedro Cieza de León’s Crónica del Perú (published in 1553) and the Relación of the Augustinians of Huamachuco (written around 1560), alleged Andean hechizería did not receive

18  The power of huacas

much attention.50 According to Cieza de León (ca. 1518–54), Peruvian hechizeros were modern Roman vestals, as they served in temples. They were surely an integral part of a wondrous and fallen world, in which a demon could do wicked things. A demon could, for example, maliciously lift into the air an Indian who wanted to convert and stubbornly hold him there for several minutes, forcing two hundred people to chain the Indian to their belts and lead him away from a demonic barrage of stones and into the church, where holy water solved the problem.51 But Cieza de León’s interest in hechizeros was, at best, superficial. It was the Augustinians—specifically, Juan de San Pedro (ca. 1514–94)—who, similar to Polo de Ondegardo, were preoccupied with hechizeros and considered them a problem for a new Christian society: “[T]hese false priests, which we better call hechizeros, when they want to consult with the demon or want to call one of them [demons], use drums soaked in the blood of guinea pigs, others use some handcuffs[;] . . . afterward the demons appear.”52 In the early seventeenth century, Felipe Guaman Poma de Ayala (ca. 1535–50 to ca. 1615) also labeled Andean religious specialists and those priests who served the ruling Incas hechizeros.53 But why? Juan Diez de Betanzos (?–1576) and Pedro Sarmiento de Gamboa (1535–92?) would not have readily agreed with these equations, though they were well versed in Inca history.54 Diez de Betanzos, for example, deliberately called Andean and Inca priests of precolonial times “priests”—and not hechizeros—though he claimed for Inca history another Merlin, the great medieval sorcerer.55 Sarmiento de Gamboa was equally reluctant to call anybody a hechizero. But in this respect, neither Diez de Betanzos nor Sarmiento had much effect on their peers. In political terms, Polo de Ondegardo and his avid readers—José de Acosta, Cristóbal de Molina from Cuzco (ca. 1529–85),56 Cristóbal de Albornoz (ca. 1529–ca. 1610), and, as I will show later on in this book, Pablo José de Arriaga (1564–1622) and his contemporaries and followers—turned out to be the most influential writers on things related to Andean religion. These authors all took note of Andean rituals in an attempt to uproot Andean practices. Sometimes they drew on the legal, theological, and natural philosophical European discourse on magic for an understanding of the performance and function of certain Andean rituals (something that will be shown later on in the discussion of individual rituals). These authors discussed novelties in the world of hechizeros that were introduced during the transition from the Inca to the colonial regime; some detected (or perhaps imposed) certain hierarchies among ritual specialists.57 Some tried to slot Andean rituals into

Introduction 19

neat categories, separating the diviner from the priest and the healer.58 Yet in 1653 Bernabé Cobo (1580–1657) corrected some of his predecessors by stating, “Most commonly, priests were confessors, medical doctors, and hechizeros at the same time . . . one should not assume that they held distinct offices.”59 Sometimes, intellectual categories proved to be inconsistent. These sixteenth- and early seventeenth-­century authors often used categories such as divination, borrachera (drinking), maleficio (evil sorcery), and superstition as shortcuts to describe acts performed by Andeans. In so doing, they ascribed meanings to Andean rituals that can never be taken at face value by the historian. Some inferior terms for religious specialists—such as idolatra/o, dogmatizador of idolatrías, superstitious healer, superstitious diviner, superstitious priest, superstitious hechizero, and mochador (venerator)—were used as well, but appeared harmless when compared with “minister of the devil,” “evil weed,” “diabolical plague,” and “poisonous animals.”60 These terms were all associated with hechizeros—and thus the triad of idolatry, superstition, and sorcery—and were used interchangeably. Yet all these European categories and efforts at making distinctions were ultimately subsumed under the umbrella heading of hechizería, superstition, and idolatry— as if no other interpretation were possible.61 This paradoxical tendency to simultaneously differentiate and simplify was not a matter of different people discussing different things at different times, or of linguistic confusion, as it appears in the works of one and the same writer. It would be wrong to assume that any one author or order—say, the Jesuits—invented all this. On the contrary, Augustinians, Dominicans, Mercedarians, Franciscans, and the secular clergy also made use of the concept of hechizería. In general, however, these orders seemed less interested in the subject of hechizería than were the Jesuits; the Augustinians came closer to matching the Jesuits’ preoccupations.62 Why then did Spaniards in the late sixteenth and early seventeenth centuries produce ever more knowledge about different kinds of An‑ dean diviners, priests, confessors, and sorcerers only to condemn religious specialists of hechizería? One could certainly view this movement from (a) searching for hechizería to (b) analyzing different actions of hechizeros to (c) corroborating the concepts of hechizería, idolatry, and superstition as a hermeneutic circle. But such an analysis does not explain much, for out of the Andean-­Christian discourse on hechizeros evolved genuine Peruvian dynamics that had the theoretical potential to

20  The power of huacas

undermine the validity of these concepts. Nor can the constant production—and to a certain extent, recycling—of knowledge about Andean rituals, acts, and specialists be explained as a product of mere curiosity. One reason involved the attempts of missionizing orders to liberate and convert the inhabitants of Andean lands; another less known reason lies in the nature of the early modern European discourse on magic. European Catholics and Protestant theological polemics, viewing the discourse on magic as a battlefield in the struggle over confession, mandated the reconstruction of explicit details. The typical late sixteenth- and early seventeenth-­century European author investigated a magical practice ad nauseam to determine its potential for heterodoxy or orthodoxy. Many went to great pains to formulate theoretical principles from which to derive notions of legitimate and illegitimate practices—­beyond the rather simple criteria of their employment in the ceremonies of Jews, Moors, or Catholics. Yet pluralism within the criteria used for evaluation coexisted with general agreement on the need to seek and record ever more subtle details. Against the background of sixteenth-­century natural philosophy—in which scholars, for example, paradoxically sought to reconcile such a detail-­obsessed art as astrology with Aristotelian syllogisms—this emphasis on observation might seem surprising. But in fact the early modern European discourse on magic, matching its legal heritage, proved resistant to deductive reasoning. This intriguing fact has important ramifications. For Spaniards in the New World, the attention to detail required by the formal nature of the discourse on magic meant that they could not simply censure Indian rituals or beliefs on principle, with eyes closed; instead, the Spaniards had to know and produce evidence of their unorthodox nature before condemning them. The move of some influential Peruvian writers in the second half of the sixteenth century toward a medieval notion of hechizería had two major implications for the Peruvian discourse on hechizería up to the first decade of the seventeenth century. First, it successfully prevented the use of alternative terms from the European magical tradition. Second, it blocked the development of a naturalistic perspective on magic that had begun to take hold in Spain from the latter half of the sixteenth century onward. Just as it elided differences between regional, local, and even individual traditions, so hechizería also replaced alternative concepts available in the European tradition. We cannot simply assume that Spaniards were sloppy linguists. Even if they sometimes were and employed

Introduction 21

categories fluidly, the absence of other terms already in use in the European discourse on magic points to a conscious objection of alternatives. For example, colonial sources employed forms of the term mago, or magician, very sparingly. Two (admittedly prominent) exceptions are González Holguín (1552–1618) and Ramos Gavilán (ca. 1570–ca. 1639), who both reserved it for someone who in Quechua was called umo, or “diviner.”63 González Holguín translated humu (umo) as “mágico hechizero,” suggesting that the humu was the deftest hechizero.64 Ramos Gavilán once alluded to “mágicos y hechizeros.” In both cases, magus appears in conjunction with hechizero. In the Augustinian context, this language served to accommodate Andean diviners to the three magi of Christian lore, an accommodation similarly followed by Jesuits and by Alonso de la Peña Montenegro (1596–1687) in his widely read Itinerario para párrocos de indios (1668).65 But nobody followed González Holguín or Ramos Gavilán in their cautious use of mago or mago hechizero. At the other extreme were the Quechua umo and its Aymara equivalent layca (translated “diviner” and later sometimes equated with “witch”), the only words that sometimes are taken whole into the Spanish language, making clear that umos and laycas were widespread among Andeans.66 In between was the employment of the term brujo (witch), found by diligent historians in sixteenth-­century chroniclers such as Martín de Murúa (?–ca. 1620).67 In other works of the late sixteenth and early seventeenth centuries, however, the term brujo, associated with the capacity to inflict harm, is used cautiously when not avoided altogether, as it was applied only slowly to the indigenous world.68 Its employment implied that the writer believed that the Indians already understood the truth very well and continued to consult demons willfully, and Murúa clearly was one such writer, as will be shown later on. Peruvian civil sources, such as secular visitation protocols and the rela­ ciones geográficas, also use brujo more frequently, mirroring a similar trend in metropolitan Spain.69 Civil authorities were less lenient than ecclesiastical ones toward witches. The complex issue of why the term brujo began to be employed increasingly from the 1620s onward, flourishing particularly in eighteenth-­century provinces, will be addressed later.70 Yet at no time did it supplant the term hechizero. It is interesting to note that Peruvians also did not draw on terms originating from the European tradition of erudite magic—such as astrology, chiromancy, hydromancy, pyromancy, or necromancy—when referring to indigenous crafts. Only one or two Spaniards ever described indigenous actions or rituals as necromancy, an attractive term both

22  The power of huacas

because it was commonly used in Spanish poetry and because it befit the tradition of ancestor veneration in the Andes, which after the conquest remained an important feature in the Andean cosmos and in everyday life.71 But Spaniards seem to have avoided terms associated with erudite magic because these exquisitely learned arts (even though some of them were suspicious) had a clear profile in the European discourse on magic and required a well-­established set of books, performances, and instruments. What those interested in hechizería found in the Andes was apart from the Inca regime and, according to their logic, involved peoples who were illiterate, ignoble, and prone to idolatry. The basic assumption was that Andeans had herbal knowledge and stones, but lacked script, scientific instruments, and natural philosophy.72 When confronted with complex cultural manifestations such as Sacsayhuaman (a stone wall in the shape of lightning, in Cuzco), where Indians had piled up enormous stones on top of each other with great mathematical precision, Spaniards credited them to demons. Thus according to the Spanish discourse in early colonial times, the true wise man in the Andes was the demon and not the Indian. The influence of Castañega’s writings on Peruvian discourse during the late sixteenth and early seventeenth centuries, which later in Lima’s archdiocese was replaced by Martín Delrío’s Disquisitones magicarum, forestalled yet another kind of general perspective on matters concerning hechizería that can be found in the Refutation of Superstitions and Sorceries (Reprobación de las supersticiones y hechizerías, 1530) by Pedro Ciruelo, an astronomer, theologian, mathematician, and Salamanca professor. Ciruelo followed the tradition of Thomas Aquinas, Castañega, and others in grouping hechizería with superstitio, idolatry, and implicit pacts with the demons, including it in the catalog of sins. But his treatise exhibited something potentially new when dealing with hechizería.73 According to Ciruelo, hechizeros performed superstitious deeds by relying on demonic powers, but there existed the possibility of producing unforeseen effects by following the “natural” course of natural causes leading to natural effects.74 All this gave rise to concern, and the outside observer was left with the difficult task of determining which effect was produced by natural causes and which had demonic underpinnings. Ciruelo referred the reader to “natural reason” and especially “experience,” nourished by a natural philosophy along Aristotelian lines. In his words, “There are some things which one duly knows by natural reason: but to know these, much work is required over a long time, making experiences and listening to the masters; but there are

Introduction 23

sciences and arts that show the effects of [natural] causes, thereby getting to know the virtues and properties of stars, stones, herbs, fishes, birds, and other animals of this earth.”75 For Spaniards in Peru, this definition posed serious problems. Who was to decide what had been acquired through natural experience and what not? Who ensured that the scholarly community rather than the demon was the teacher of facts? Did new knowledge about nature— such as that obtained by Indians—belong to this orthodox canon of na‑ tural experiences? How, if at all, could New World indigenous knowledge become integrated into the canon? These questions were not as arbitrary as they might at first appear. As we will see, the Spanish idea that the demon was probably the teacher of all indigenous knowledge—­ including such useful knowledge as the virtues of native plants—­ challenged the Jesuits to find a way to gain access to this knowledge while simultaneously controlling Indians who were in the fetters of hechizería. Meanwhile, back in Spain, Ciruelo and others helped promote novel “naturalistic” arguments about witches among Spanish scholars and Inquisitors. They began to question what was and was not possible in nature, ultimately turning the accusation of witchcraft into benign disapproval of melancholic women’s self-­delusions and antics.76 In Peru, however, such arguments were brought forth only rarely (though from the beginning of the seventeenth century onward, we sometimes encounter an “advocate of Indians” who argues along these lines). The fact is that those who produced the most extensive records of the world of Andean religious specialists, such as visitators, ecclesiastics, and Jesuits, hardly ever followed Ciruelo’s recourse to natural philosophy, relying instead on Castañega’s general equation (also shared by Ciruelo) of hechizería with “false gods, false cults, false actions.” And even though this notion of hechizería did not necessarily bring the idea of inflicting harm to the fore, hechizería was and remained still terrifying for many individuals throughout the seventeenth century.77 At no stage in its history was the Peruvian discourse on hechi­ zería a mere academic pastime, concerned simply with slotting this or that Andean specialist into this or that predetermined drawer. Fear lay at its heart: the threat of the demons turned hechizeros into the chief enemies of Spaniards in their attempt to build a Christian society, even though one of two “republics.” For example, Antonio de la Calancha (1584–1654), usually a careful scholar inclined favorably toward Inca—if not indigenous—customs, recounted that a “gran hechizero” by the name of Charimango wanted to challenge the mo-

24  The power of huacas

nopoly on power claimed by God.78 Therefore, one day Charimango summoned his fellow “idolatrous Indians,” who all “hated baptism,” to a gathering at the base of a certain mountain so that he might display a power dwarfing Christ’s. Charimango then climbed the mountain, proclaiming that he would make the mountain collapse. With those words, he kicked the mountain—probably not the one he was standing on, although Calancha was not precise on this point—and indeed, the mountain collapsed. When the dust cleared, it was half its previous size. According to Calancha, Charimango’s performance scared those Indians unwilling to be baptized, but not himself. He reasoned that the demon, through his knowledge of “natural philosophy,” had simply known the exact hour when the Earth would tremble and cause an earthquake. Calancha’s explanation is quite revealing, for although he was quick to mock Charimango’s pretenses, that ridicule did not extend to the demon’s power or perhaps the demon’s obedience to Charimango. As so often happens in Peruvian stories about hechizeros, Charimango ultimately met an unfortunate fate that Calancha apparently thought appropriate. A few days after this performance, the demon decided that it no longer wanted to be Charimango’s assistant and returned to its true nature: an evil bug. According to Calancha, the demon slipped into Charimango and tormented him with lice and worms until he died. In Calancha’s eyes, the story’s resolution contained a question mark: “I could not find out whether God had sent this chastisement on behalf of the sermons which the monks or the priests gave . . . or not.” But by implication, Calancha assumed Charimango’s infection to be the result of God’s volition rather than the demon’s. We might think that Calancha was simply superstitious, but he was not alone in believing in a connection between collapsing mountains and supernatural powers. Another reasonable man, the Jesuit José de Acosta, told a related though much less spectacular story. According to him, one day a huge landslide occurred halfway between Chuquisaca (the modern Sucre) and Chuquiabo (the modern La Paz), destroying an entire village. This village, as Acosta carefully mentioned in a subordinate clause, was famous for its hechizeros. Thus, according to Acosta, its burial by an avalanche was God’s judgment.79 Together, these stories reveal much about Spanish fears of demonic powers and hechizeros as well as about Andean cosmology. Andeans considered mountains to be sacred places. These sacred mountains granted fertility to fields in the Andes often threatened with drought. Moreover, certain mountains secured health and social harmony among Andean communities. It is

Introduction 25

therefore not surprising that Calancha’s and Acosta’s reports centered on mountain sites. Not astonishing either is the absence of any tales by authors in Europe about magi or sorcerers who made mountains collapse. Obviously, European magi interacted with demons that lived elsewhere. In Peru, as Spaniards believed, indigenous hechizeros worshipped demons in the mountains, to name but one example. In this way, as Spaniards forced the concept of hechizería on the Andes, the Andean landscape and, even more forcefully, the logic of Andean culture affected the rhythms of their discourse on magic. And just as Spaniards were driven by fear, so were Andeans.

Chapter One

A L and Obsessed with Confessions; or, The Historians’ Insights into the World of Colonial Andean Religious Specialists

During the colonial period, Peru became a land of confessions. In 1684 the artist José López de los Ríos captured the dramatic importance of this Catholic practice in the history of Andean religious specialists on a 4 × 8 meter cloth (figure 1.1).1 In the picture’s upper left corner an indigenous woman kneels in front of a Jesuit priest. Her face is black, a devil pulls her by her shoulders, and snakes crawl down her bosom. Behind the woman’s back, two other women dressed in indigenous gowns kneel in front of a third indigenous person—who boasts two horns—and offer him a qero, the ritual cup that preserved the memory of the Incas during the colonial period.2 The tableau thus depicts two different confessions: one in front of a Jesuit, and the other in front of an indigenous priest. Underneath these, a Latin message reads: “Vae nobis cur peccavimus mittent eos in caminum ignis ibi erit fletus et stridor dentium in infernon [sic] nulla est redemptio” (Woe on us: why did we transgress? They [the heavenly powers] will throw those [who transgressed] into the chimney of fire where there will be howling and teeth grinding. In hell, no one is redeemed). This allusion to Matthew 8:12 divides the picture into two halves, with the lower part reserved for the horrors of hell.3 López de los Ríos made the onlooker vividly imagine how devils torture, devour, and kill their victims. Destructive fires surround loathsome creatures and naked human beings, their eyes filled with fear. They seem to hope for rescue, but salvation cannot be expected from this world of horrors. Above hell, the two confession scenes are complemented by a vignette in which an indigenous couple move stiffly to the music of two musicians. One musician plays a zampoña (similar to a pan flute) and holds a drum; the other beats a drum. In the upper right corner, Spaniards, Creoles, mestizos, and an Afro-­Peruvian indulge in the pleasures

a l and obsessed with confessions  27

Figure 1.1. Panel from El Infierno (1684), by José López de los Ríos. Church of Carabuco, Bolivia.

of life. For all the people on this small earth, hell awaits. In each of the four scenes, one person is depicted with horns: the devil, the indigenous priest who receives the qero, the indigenous musician, and one Spaniard. In two instances, the artist makes earth and hell converge. He pushes the Latin inscription aside to allow two clouds of steam to emerge from hell. These little clouds curl up around the confessing woman (apparently a Catholic), the indigenous person playing music, and the two women confessing to the indigenous priest. What was so sinful about these acts? What was wrong with an Andean woman’s confession to a Jesuit priest, musicians playing, and the offering of a qero by two women?

The political and spiritual conquest of the L ake Titicaca region López de los Ríos’s late seventeenth-­century image was painted for the church of Carabuco, a small town perched on the eastern shore of Lake Titicaca at an elevation of about 3,830 meters. During colonial times, the southern highlands were the heartland of the indigenous Andean population. It is estimated that in 1620 around 350,000 of an estimated total of 670,000 indigenous Peruvians were living in the region of Lake

28  The power of huacas

Titicaca.4 This area boasted a mythological importance for the Collas, the Lupacas, and the Omasuyos (ethnic groups from the south) as well as for the Incas.5 The Incas built their identity around Tambo Tocco, Cuzco, and the lake. They located their dynasty’s and Viracocha’s origin on the largest island in Lake Titicaca, the island of the sun.6 According to their myths, it was from this rugged island that the Incas began their astonishingly rapid rise to power.7 Unsurprisingly, and consistent with their imperial politics, once the Incas were in power they continued to recruit high-­ranking officials from the Collasuyo.8 Felipe Guaman Poma de Ayala identified the high priests of the Inca regime (“laycaconas, umoconas, vizaconas, camascaconas”)—for him the prototypes of hechizeros—with the Collasuyo region by depicting them with the headdress typical of the southern plains.9 The Vilaoma, the priest in charge of the Qoricancha (the main Inca temple in Cuzco), and the bearers who carried the litters of the reigning Inca from one battle site to another were people from the south: Collas, Lupacas, and Kallawayas.10 The Kallawayas, still famous for their herbal knowledge, lived and continue to live east of Carabuco.11 From the mid-­sixteenth century onward, the Lake Titicaca region became famous among Spaniards for its many other hechizeros, its diviners and healers. According to Juan de Santa Cruz Pachacuti Yamqui Salcamaygua (seventeenth century), Inca Yupanqui, the ninth Inca, met with two hechizeros from the Collao before he undertook his military campaign against the Condesuyos. Pachacuti recounted the hechizeros’ names, Ccoles and Camanchacas, but not much else.12 The Augustinian Alonso Ramos Gavilán (ca. 1570–1639) unearthed a tale from the south in which one such diviner once beheld a beautifully colored bird sitting on the wall of the Qoricancha. The bird predicted the end of the Inca regime: “When some people [in the Qoricancha] heard a noise from outside, they saw how a bird took off until they lost sight of it. Afterward, the magicians and sorcerers ascertained that this bird foretold the ruin of the Inca regime. New people would come to be their masters. An Indio by the name of Tupagualpa uncovered this prediction and omen. He affirmed that he had seen the bird and heard the voices.”13 For Ramos Gavilán, these diviners were like the three magi following the star of Bethlehem. Of course, this prophecy was just one of several retrospectively mythologized omens of the Inca empire’s end.14 It is well known that the Incas’ prophetic visions of the end of their empire did not avert its conquest. In quick succession, relying on indigenous alliances and brutal warfare, Spaniards took over Inca and Andean

a l and obsessed with confessions  29

lands. The conquest began with Pizarro’s landfall at Tumbes on May 16, 1532.15 In the following months and years, Spaniards dismantled the Inca regime with gruesome efficiency. First they strangled Atahualpa in Cajamarca on July 26, 1533, after having perfidiously offered him the Bible and baptism so as to avoid being burned as an infidel. After a long period of intra-­Spanish warfare and Inca resistance in the Vilcabamba— Cuzco’s northeastern mountain range with its deep valleys, Inca roads, snowcapped mountains, and stretches of cloud forest—a fugitive partisan of Diego de Almagro killed Manco Inca Yupanqui in 1544. Finally, Francisco Toledo, the fourth viceroy of Peru (1569–81), ordered the beheading of Tupac Amaru, the last legal heir of the Inca rulers, on September 24, 1572. Viceroy Toledo acted like a conquistador, shamefully ending a succession of murders. As we will see in the next chapter, his behavior had an impact on the life of religious specialists. Protests against this violent termination of the Inca regime proved futile. Some realized afterward that the killing of the Incas had been a grave mistake. In 1588 José de Acosta bemoaned, “Had the Spaniards not killed but converted Atahualpa, the Indians would have easily followed his example and received the Christian faith, because it is marvelous to see the obedience of these barbarians toward their kings and caciques [local lords].”16 In condemning the beheading of Atahualpa, Acosta indirectly condemned the murder of Tupac Amaru as well. The Jesuit was well aware of the problems inherent in converting Indians, and especially hechizeros, to true Christianity. Thus by 1572 Spaniards were the political lords of the Andes. Conquistadors, encomenderos, and others formed personal ties with Inca coyllas (female members of the former social elite), thereby both satisfying their desires and easing the transition from Inca to Spanish political power. The king of Spain appointed the viceroy over the people and set up town councils and courts. The Spanish crown was the patron of the Catholic Church. Encomenderos exploited Indians all over the country. Politically speaking, Indians were without power. They were granted the right to keep their local representatives, the curacas, but Europeans well understood how to transform curacas into instruments to extend their own political will.17 Of course, from early on, many Indians aligned themselves with the Spaniards, but many others did not. Whenever we observe that indigenous people used the Spanish legal system for their own ends, whether to fight for their lands or properties or to write petitions to the king, seeking redress for brutal exploitations, we must understand that such spaces for legal actions

30  The power of huacas

occupied a tiny corner in an essentially unjust system.18 Spaniards and Creoles built Lima, a city of glorious wealth where silver adorned the tables, on the back of a society starkly divided between the rich and powerful, mostly Spaniards and Creoles, and the often poor and powerless Indians and Afro-­Peruvians. But again, the history of political vicissitudes does not tell the whole story. Culturally, neither Toledo nor the missionaries of the different orders anticipated the resistance of indigenous religious specialists and the logic of Andean culture.19 Therefore, as the Carabuco image at the opening of this chapter demonstrates, in 1684—five generations after the conquest—Spaniards and Creoles still felt the need to graphically remind the Indians, and especially the religious specialists, of the punishments that awaited them in hell.20 Hell would greet those Indians who danced to indigenous musicians, who offered qeros to indigenous specialists, and who perhaps falsely confessed to a Jesuit priest. How did the Jesuits and other missionaries get to Lake Titicaca in the first place? And, more important, why is a brief history of Carabuco and Lake Titicaca an appropriate introduction to a history of the transcultural processes in the world of Andean religious specialists that tries to decipher the underlying axioms of their beliefs? While Spanish adventurers conquered the Incas militarily, Dominican, Augustinian, Franciscan, and later Jesuit missionaries set out to conquer the Andes by other means.21 In their missions, departing from their colegios during the seventeenth century, Jesuits employed a plethora of interconnected measures to combat indigenous hechizería: incarceration, accommodation of indigenous myths, indoctrination via images, and, last but not least, confessions and redefinitions of indigenous sins. Many of these approaches began to take shape in the Jesuit missions among the Lupacas and Omasuyos around the doctrina (parish) of Julí (beginning in 1576). In the beginning Jesuits flocked to the highlands of the Altiplano, slowly becoming proficient in Quechua and Aymara, a knowledge that enabled them to gain insights into indigenous worlds. At first, Domingo de Santo Tomás (1499–1570), a Dominican who published his Quechua dictionary in 1560, drew on knowledge from the southeastern Andes.22 Compared to those that followed, his dictionary was small, because he did not fully exploit the rich expressiveness of the Andean world.23 The Jesuit Alonso de Barzana (1530–97), one of the best early specialists in Quechua, worked in Julí and Cuzco, and later wrote a Quechua dictionary (1586)24 that was superseded only by the Jesuit González Holguín’s dictionary Vocabulario de la lengua general de todo el Perú llamada

a l and obsessed with confessions  31

lengua quichua, ó del Inca (1608). Another Jesuit specialist on Aymara and Quechua was Diego de Torres Rubio (d. 1634) who published his grammar and dictionary Arte de la lengua quichua in 1619.25 Officially, the Jesuits arrived at Lake Titicaca in 1576. Relying on dubious evidence, Viceroy Toledo dislodged the Dominicans from Chucuito, charging them with poorly ordered and implemented missionary strategies.26 With the permission of the viceroy and King Philip II— always a key precondition for formally setting up a new mission—the Jesuits accepted the doctrina of Julí, thirty miles south of Chucuito.27 Julí soon became an important experimental laboratory for missions among native South Americans. Other early Jesuit endeavors—such as the doctrina of Cercado (Santiago de Cercado) in Lima and Huarochirí, in Lima’s hinterland—were far less successful by Jesuit standards.28 In Julí in 1600, 14 Jesuits estimated that they were in charge of 14,000 Indians. It was an all-­Indian parish, covering an immense territory. In fact, with its four churches—San Pedro y San Pablo, San Juan Bautista, La Santa Cruz, and San Ildefonso—Julí can be considered a smaller predecessor to the famous Jesuit reducciones of Paraguay (where the first missions began in 1609).29 Jesuits experimented with different methods of thoroughly indoctrinating indigenous people. They used music, set up a simple school for Indians, had their own printing press, preached on Sundays, and heard confessions at regular intervals.30 Jesuits from Julí ventured, with their crosses, into the villages of neighboring ethnic groups, bemoaned their laborious but fruitful work, and baptized more and more Indians, whom they could then make confess. According to the account of Rodrigo de Cabredo, one day in 1600 a famous hechi­ zera entered Julí. She was a forastera, or foreigner, but was stunned by the piety of Julí’s Indians. As the Jesuit narrative tells it, this happy devotion aroused in her the wish to convert to Christianity.31 She confessed all her sins and “idolatries,” and listed 150 “idols” as proof of her sincerity. In Julí and Cuzco, and later on in many other places, Jesuits began to listen carefully to Quechua and Aymara myths. They tried to understand the practices and rituals of ordinary Indians, of religious specialists, and of healers in order to ultimately dispute and undermine them with their own ideas and practices. According to Jesuit discourse, Julí was a successful experiment. But sometimes, when the character and mood of the reporting Jesuit allows us to see it, it becomes clear that the Jesuits struggled with the many hechizeros of the region. They came to realize that it was not enough to incarcerate forty hechizeros in the

32  The power of huacas

Figure 1.2. Adoration of the Magi, by Diego de la Puente (1586–1663). Church of La Asunción, JulÍ, Peru.

year 1621:32 there were still many more who remained free, all with the ability and motivation to seduce the Indians. Late seventeenth-­century depictions of the “Adoration of the Magi,” a familiar Christian motif, are more numerous in Julí and its environs than in any other area of colonial Peru.33 The Indian magus is depicted as an Inca, and the image clearly alludes to hechizeros as heirs of the Incas (see figure 1.2; more generally, see chapter 2). Jesuits began to believe that hechizeros were the evil weeds that threatened the garden they were attempting to plant in Peru.34 The desire to “pull out these evil weeds”35—a metaphor by which Jesuits both devalued hechizeros and made them more anonymous— caused the order to oppose these religious specialists with more rigor, taking a subtle theoretical and symbolic approach. It was in Julí that the Jesuits, for the first time in their history in Peru, began to target indigenous hechizeros systematically. In fact, Jesuits incarcerated hechi­ zeros even as they entered into a dialogue with the indigenous world, listening to what the religious specialists had to say and gaining information about the world of Andean religious specialists. In Julí we can trace the development of both of these strategies. In 1582 Jesuits erected an official prison for hechizeros.36 On the one hand, they were

a l and obsessed with confessions  33

copying the Dominicans in Chucuito and enacting the decrees of the Second Council of Lima; but they also heeded the bishop of Charcas, Alonso Ramírez Granero de Avalos (appointed 1579–85), who believed that a new type of prison needed to be erected for hechizeros.37 It was to be prominently located on the main plaza—not in some side annex to the church. Everyone should see the hechizeros being incarcerated. The Jesuits followed his instructions, and later documents testify to the prison’s operation throughout much of the seventeenth century.38 The remains of the building can still be observed today. But most interesting is the Jesuits’ willful attempt to accommodate Christianity to indigenous practices, myths, and symbols—or at least shape their lessons to what they thought these indigenous elements meant. One of these accommodations involved the story of Tunupa, the myth behind another image found in Carabuco in which the figure of the hechizero figured prominently. Jesuits found that hechizeros from Lake Titicaca had already targeted Christianity in pre-­Spanish times. Thus hechizeros from Lake Titicaca presented a special threat.

Accommodating to Andean hechizeros: An example from early colonial myth Before the Europeans invaded their lands, the people living on the shores of Lake Titicaca had been handing down a story about Tunupa.39 According to Pachacuti Yamqui Salcamaygua, Tunupa was a white-­ bearded man who punished vicious people with a stick and transformed them into stones. He also expelled the hapiñunos, who were considered malevolent ghosts.40 For those indigenous people who could glance at the dark blue of the lake, Tunupa was associated with the beginning of a new era.41 By 1613, when Pachacuti interwove the Tunupa legend with his understanding of Inca pre-­Spanish Andean-­Christian monotheism, the Incas had already assimilated Tunupa to Viracocha (the high god of the Incas). The details of this complicated story of Inca assimilations are not relevant here.42 The Jesuit version of this legend reveals much about the confrontation engineered by the Jesuits between themselves and the hechizeros, whom they had set into opposition to it and to Christianity. In 1599, the Julí Jesuits on their mission to Omasuyo learned about the Tunupa legend while they were interrogating a number of inebriated hechizeros. Jesuits usually disapproved of these collective benders, considering drunkenness to be a demonic vice and failing to recognize

34  The power of huacas

its potential to fulfill a sacred function.43 In this particular instance, the Jesuits raised few objections to the drunken hechizeros, because they learned from them the story of a cross—the Cross of Carabuco.44 According to this indigenous myth of the Omasuyos, one day in time immemorial, a white man appeared on the eastern shore of Lake Titicaca. He was a disciple of Jesus—the Holy Thomas (or Santo Thomas), who, according to a tradition of the third and fourth century, was the first apostle to India. As the native myth goes, this holy man erected a cross in the Andes in the midst of the ushnu of Carabuco. Once his task was done, a demon in human form joined the indigenous people and drank and celebrated with them. From the Jesuit narrative of the indigenous myth, this demon’s identity, origin, and relationship to the cross remain unclear. It is said that he explained foreign things to the people of Carabuco but then disappeared. The village people were concerned and asked their hechizeros to address the demon and ask why he had stopped appearing. The hechizeros did so, and the demon responded: he was busy somewhere else, but they should continue to adore him and provide him with food. The religious specialists replied that they did not want to adore the cross, they had not heard of the person who was nailed to the cross, and they would not give him food. Without further ado, the hechizeros burned the cross. On the next day, however, the cross reappeared on the ushnu unharmed. The hechizeros allegedly then turned to more extreme measures and sought to burn the apostle Thomas, but of course, as is a saint’s privilege until his martyrdom, Saint Thomas escaped. After hearing this account, Jesuits from Julí ventured out in search of the mythical site of Carabuco. They found three stones, or idols, and— more important for them—they discovered Thomas’s cross. Today their finds would probably be identified as pieces of a pre-­Columbian artifact, since Ramos Gavilán also tells us that other missionaries found the mantle and sandals of the saint somewhere nearby.45 Very likely, all these items were unearthed from different pre-­Columbian tombs. But since they were not archaeologists, people in 1599 immediately believed in the authenticity of their finds and began to cut fragments from the holy cross. The Jesuits also cut away their share of this relic.46 Sources disagree over the fate of the Cross of Carabuco. Jesuits say they brought it in its entirety to the metropolitan church of Chuquisaca. The Augustinian Ramos Gavilán, who claimed to have interviewed old Indians who vividly recalled the excitement of the cross’s discovery, reported that only one of the three pieces of wood was brought to Chuquisaca,

a l and obsessed with confessions  35

while another remained in Carabuco. Ramos Gavilán also mentioned three nails, which were another point of contention. At first priests found only two nails. After serious digging, the missing—and symbolically significant—third nail was found. From these artifacts, Ramos Gavilán concluded that the Cross of Carabuco was Jesus’ original cross. Afterward, the nails were distributed over the Collasuyo region and at some point were lost. In obedience to the Tridentine rule, the bishop Don Alonso Ramírez de Vergara (1594–1602) carefully investigated the cross’s potential for miracles.47 He verified its authenticity and officially proclaimed that it should be considered a holy relic. Thus, Peru had its first official relic, one that had allegedly survived the base attacks of hechizeros in pre-­Spanish times. By that time, of course, Lake Titicaca already had the Virgen de Copacabana (recognized from around 1582 onward), who constantly worked miracles for sick people and demoniacs.48 But unlike the story of the Carabuco cross, the tale of the Virgin’s origin was never associated with hechizeros. And despite the survival of the cross, hechizeros also somehow managed to outlive Christian politics. According to Jesuits and Augustinians, the Cross of Carabuco testified to the Jesuit belief that the Andeans had once been Christians. It was the devil’s engaño (evil inventiveness), working through the hechi­ zeros, that had deluded and perverted Andean Christianity. In fact, from the late sixteenth to the late seventeenth century, Jesuits and Augustinians found and reconstructed several other similarities. They found evidence for Andean monotheism, for concepts of the Trinity, for the existence of confessions, and for the worship of saints.49 They heard that a comet, much like the star of Bethlehem but in the shape of a condor, had announced the arrival of Christianity in the Andes.50 When Jesuits turned their attention even closer to hechizeros and their rituals, they stumbled upon even more astonishing analogies. The missionaries came to believe that hechizeros feasted during Lent (the forty days before Easter) and that they served as confessors, ychuris, quite like the Jesuits themselves.51 The history of colonial representations of Tunupa and his relations with hechizeros reveals how much hechizería weighed in the European discourse about conversion of the Andean people from the very beginning of the encounter onward. In his Nueva corónica, the Christian native Andean Guaman Poma, writing in defense of the legitimacy of Andean (not Inca) customs, provided his own distinctive vision of hechizería by referring to the legend of the Carabuco cross.52 Despite living in a time, and country, with little tolerance for irony with respect

36  The power of huacas

to religion, Guaman Poma was an artist in crafting meaningful stories, hiding his own views behind apparent Catholic orthodoxy. One of his tales deals with the apostle Saint Bartholomew (San Bartolomé), the Jesuit Saint Thomas (see figure 1.3). In the medieval and early modern Iberian discourse on hechizería, Saint Bartholomew was held to be the one who captures demons.53 One day, in the time of Sinchi Roca Inca, shortly after the birth of Jesus on the other side of the Atlantic, Saint Bartholomew appeared in Tawantinsuyo. He reached the village of Cacha, near the eastern shore of Lake Titicaca in the province of Collao. There, the holy man was stoned by the local inhabitants, and he fled into a cave where an hechizero kept his idol. The hechizero, who went by the name of Anti, wanted to ask his idol about something while the holy man was present, but the idol did not respond; because of Bartholomew’s presence, it did not, or could not, talk. Anti left, but the demon returned to him in his dreams and told him that he could not come back to the cave. Perplexed, Anti asked the holy man for advice. Saint Bartholomew instructed him to reenter the cave and speak again to the idol. Anti obeyed, and the demon confessed to Anti that the poor man (Saint Bartholomew) had more power than he himself. The demon’s admission of his weakness was the beginning of a happy ending. Anti embraced the apostle, kissed his hands and his holy feet, and begged for grace and “restoration.” Bartholomew baptized Anti, who became his first Andean apostle, and, as a sign of this holy miracle, erected the Carabuco cross. According to Guaman Poma, Anti’s conversion to Christianity was God’s first miracle in pre-­Tawantinsuyo times. Thus again, in Guaman Poma’s version of the myth of Carabuco, a Christian apostolic figure confronted an hechizero face-­to-­face.54 The saint conquered the hechizero, his idol, and his demon. The latter’s voluntary surrender hardly surprises readers, given the strong impression that this creature was rather tame. There is no hint that the demon tried to make the hechizero harm the holy man. Instead, the demon merely talked about his powerlessness. Curiously enough, Guaman Poma called the hechizero Anti. González Holguín, in his dictionary of 1609, translated “anteruna o anti” as “the Indian man of the Andes” (“el indio hombre de los Andes”). Guaman Poma seemed to either suggest that the inhabitants of Inca Antisuyo were hechizeros and were thus converted, or that Anti, with his worship of an idol and his talk to a demon, was representative “of the Indian man of the Andes.” Hechi­ zería was thus endemic. From the time of having collected the Andean myth about Tunupa,

Figure 1.3. Saint Bartholomew. From Felipe Guaman Poma de Ayala,

Nueva corónica y buen gobierno (1615), 92. Courtesy of the Royal Library, Copenhagen, Denmark.

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from 1599 onward, Jesuits working in the Lake Titicaca region (along with their brethren in Lima, Cuzco, and elsewhere) became painfully aware that neither Saint Thomas’s nor Saint Bartholomew’s preparatory work had smoothed the path for conversion of contemporary Andean hechizeros.55 The Cross of Carabuco proved efficacious during colonial times for healings and exorcisms, but not for converting religious specialists.

The rivalry between two confessors: Jesuit versus ychuri, and an Inca notion of sin By the time of the Carabuco depiction of hell and the Last Judgment, in 1684, the retelling of the story of Carabuco in a new medium was intended to instill the fear of hell in the Andeans and again to combat hechizeros and their alleged idolatries. One alleged sin addressed by the image of Carabuco was false confession, depicted in two different ways. As noted above, the artist López de los Ríos juxtaposed two priestly figures: a true Jesuit confessor and a mendacious indigenous one.56 What the artist condemned in the case of the woman facing the Jesuit priest was not the confession itself but dissimulation within confession.57 The devil and the snakes undoubtedly alluded to Satan as represented in traditional Christian iconography; and here, as in Dürer’s Melencolia I (1514), the woman’s black face signaled an abundance of black bile. Although in sixteenth-­century European tradition excessive black bile was considered the source of melancholy and thus intellectual ingenuity, it is unlikely that the artist—who was censured by some unknown church authority—would have openly praised the Indians’ abilities. Instead, her condition was much more likely to be an allusion to deception, frenzy, and insanity, whose association with black bile was commonplace in late medieval and early modern demonology. In his Tratado del examen de revelaciones (1634), the Spanish author Jerónimo Planes regarded melancholic people as prone to satanic possession. He concluded, “Demons take advantage of melancholia and desire it in men.”58 Thus, the black-­faced woman kneeling in front of the Jesuit lied about her pact with the devil and concealed it in her confession.59 But what about the other two women, who kneel in front of non-­Jesuits? Apparently, they are confessing to an ychuri, the indigenous “confessor.” Who were they? Polo de Ondegardo mentioned several indigenous notions of sickness. According to one Andean conception, a sickness was a sin that

a l and obsessed with confessions  39

had not been expiated.60 The first step toward recovery was a sacrifice, which was followed by a pilgrimage to the ychuri, an hechizero who would hear confession. In Polo de Ondegardo’s words: “And as a cure they used sacrifices: on top of this, they confessed verbally in all the provinces, and they had confessors delegated for that [purpose], more and less important ones, and there were sins reserved for the main [priest], and they received penance, and sometimes a harsh one, especially if they who had sinned were poor and had nothing to give to the confessor.”61 Polo de Ondegardo reported that when one Inca was sick, the whole province had to confess. The Collas (either the ethnic group that lived on the northern shores of Lake Titicaca or the inhabitants of the entire Inca Collasuyo) in particular had to reveal their state of sinfulness to the ychuri. The gravest sin was to not confess.62 At the end of this paragraph, Polo de Ondegardo explained to his Spanish readers that the ychuris had adopted the idea that a sin could be spiritual only under the influence of Christianity.63 He thereby revealed that during the first twenty-­five years of Spanish rule, the inhabitants of the formerly Inca realm had not abandoned the office of the ychuris but had instead adapted it to Christianity. One of Polo de Ondegardo’s greatest opponents was the anonymous writer of De las costumbres antiguas de los naturales del Pirú, usually attributed to the Jesuit Blas Valera (1544–97), who proudly referred to a different Inca canon of sins.64 Like Polo de Ondegardo, Blas Valera was gripped by the idea that the Inca regime—a theocracy, in his view—­ required the punishment of its subjects’ sins. The compulsion to confess mirrored the individual’s social rank. At the top of the socioreligious hierarchy stood the Inca, and then the Vilaoma. The Vilaoma, almost like a Roman pontifex maximus, was exempt from confession, and the Inca certainly was as well. With great satisfaction—and with repeated jabs at Polo de Ondegardo—Blas Valera described the different kinds of sins and punishments.65 Unlike Polo de Ondegardo, however, Blas Valera ignored the place of sin and sickness within the larger context of an Inca worldview. Instead, he concentrated on social and political hierarchies and constructed his overall narrative along the lines of Marcus Terentius Varro.66 Yet in the Inca and Andean world, sin and sickness were linked to huacas and to a larger sociopolitical whole: the well-­being of Inca society and, as documents from the late sixteenth and seventeenth century reveal, of a particular ayllu (kinship group) as well.67 One such Inca ritual was described by Cristóbal de Molina in his account of the festivals of the month of Coyaraymi (August).68 Its orga-

40  The power of huacas

nization merits a brief summary as it underscores an Andean notion of sickness as being dependent on social coherence, a concept that provoked Andean religious specialists to view the arrival of Spaniards as a state of sickness into which the Andean world had deeply fallen (see chapters 2 and 3). In times of Inca rulership, during the month of Coyaraymi the people took part in a succession of festivities that centered on health and sickness, including one of the greatest feasts in the Incas’ religious calendar, the Citua. As Molina recounted, this feast was intended to expel existing sicknesses from Inca lands and to prevent the onset of sicknesses that accompanied the beginning of the rainy season. To those ends, people from the four regions—Andesuyo, Cuntisuyo, Collasuyo, and Chinchasuyo—brought their huacas to Cuzco. There, the objects were placed in the Qoricancha and dedicated to Viracocha, the Sun and Thunder, which was the primary center of this cultic action. The statues of Chucuilla and Viracocha were also brought there. After this massive pooling of huacas, the Inca, priests, warriors, and the population of Cuzco (with the exception of hunchbacks) gathered in the main plaza, the Haucaypata. Later on, members of different social groups, notably warriors and priests, exclaimed in the direction of the four regions, “Evil, go away,” or “Diseases, disasters, and misery, and dangers leave this world.”69 Over the course of the ceremonies, certain people left Cuzco for different provinces after observing a special ritual whose details varied by region. The deputies for the Cuntisuyo, for example, went to the river of Cusibamba to bathe and wash their armor. According to Molina, this ritual cleansing of bodies and arms chased diseases away from Cuzco. The Inca and the populace of Cuzco also had to go to rivers and wash themselves as they said, “May diseases leave us.” During this part of the ritual they crafted bundles of straw, which they later ignited or exchanged. After being cleansed, these people went to their houses and cooked zanco (a type of maize pudding or maize cake). “They put it on their faces and also on the door frames and they put sanco where they stored their food and their clothes; and they brought sanco to their springs and threw it into them, saying, ‘[T]hey will neither become sick nor will any sickness enter the house.’”70 After sickness had thus been expelled from Cuzco and from their individual houses, people shared the remaining zanco with the other members of their ayllu, with their friends, and also with the dead. After several other steps within the festivities, the ones present in the central ceremonies swore to “not mock Viracocha, the Sun or Thunder,

a l and obsessed with confessions  41

to be faithful, and to not be a traitor to the Inca”;71 if they behaved otherwise, condemnation and (forced) labor awaited them. Finally, the representatives of the ayllus took this oath for those who, because of sickness, were absent from the ceremony. Afterward, priests inflated the lungs of the four sacrificed llamas to divine the course of the coming year. At the end of these ceremonies, the priests distributed pieces of llama meat to the inhabitants of Cuzco while addressing Viracocha in prayers that pleaded for prosperity. In two of these prayers, the Sun was invoked to protect against sickness.72 In another, the penultimate prayer during the distribution of the llama meat, the huacas and villcas, forefathers, and fathers should help to bring the people to ask Viracocha to protect them against “curses, witchcraft, divination by lots.”73 According to Molina’s account, sin, sickness, social well-­being, and even hechizería were already all interrelated during Inca times.

The Jesuits as Christian confessors par excellence José de Acosta, who became the Jesuits’ most important ideologue through the early seventeenth century, read and cited Polo de Ondegardo, Blas Valera, and perhaps even Molina and their notions concerning indigenous ychuris.74 In 1577, when Acosta finished his De pro­ curanda indorum salute while still in Peru, he had begun to encourage his brethren to note down all the sins Indians committed, which they ideally should confess in front of a Jesuit. Even though confessions were taken under the seal of the confession, some of what the Jesuits had heard from those that confessed their idolatries became detached from the person who had confessed,75 but informed Jesuit knowledge of the Andes and might even have informed the description of Andean rituals in the cartas annuas. Acosta suggested that the ychuri be replaced with the Jesuit. Acosta exclaimed that “in all this blindness”—a reference to being surrounded by indigenous idolatries—the Jesuits “have to congratulate ourselves that they [the Indians] had some sense of confession.”76 But according to Acosta, the indigenous notion of sins needed to be replaced. Constant supervision, painstaking investigations, and the scrutiny of hidden intentions and committed deeds would become mandatory for the Jesuits in their dealings with the indigenous world throughout their missions, and especially of the hechizeros and ychuris among them. The Jesuits understood this approach to be a prerequisite for the liberation of the Andes from the sinful state of existence into which it had fallen.77 Confession, in Jesuit eyes, had become the

42  The power of huacas

first step toward salvation and the healing of the indigenous soul and world.78 Indeed, in his De procuranda indorum salute, which had many readers and adherents in colonial Peru, Acosta had emphasized that confession was the only “hope for the salvation of the Indians.”79 The only hope!80 Already in 1577 Acosta was congratulating himself on the success of Jesuits who had begun roaming through the countryside to hear confession. He was convinced that indigenous people came voluntarily, begging to confess, and insisted that thousands of Indians had already sought relief. According to Acosta, if the indigenous people did not come during their lifetime, they at least approached Jesuits shortly before they died: “Do we not see that the fear of death conquers the fear of the priest?”81 Thus, the definition of “voluntary confession” was somewhat flexible. Acosta also valued confession as the first step toward recovery of health, both physical and spiritual. Following the church fathers, and especially Augustine, Acosta dropped the “garden and weed” metaphor, instead repeatedly using medical imagery to characterize the fallen and sick spiritual state of these “pagan people.”82 As he said, confession is “medicine for mortal sicknesses, efficient purification of leprosy; finally it is resurrection of the soul that is already on the brink of death through its sins.”83 The identification of the Catholic confessor with the medical doctor was common in discourse about indigenous peoples until the late seventeenth century,84 and the specific image of leprosy was taken up by Villagómez in his Exortaciones (1646). For Acosta, God was without doubt the “true medical doctor.”85 To partake in his healing powers, the indigenous person had to lay bare all his or her sins. The Jesuits’ focus on confession was also motivated by the order’s own vows, which called for painstaking self-­examination. In the late seventeenth century, any Peruvian Jesuit who entered the splendid church La Compañía in Cuzco would have seen a painting that showed Ignacio de Loyola holding his book Spiritual Exercises toward the onlooker. Ignacio stands above six fallen men whose heads are wrapped in Moorish turbans. From the inscription on the headdresses, Jesuits knew that these beleaguered individuals were Luther, Melanchthon, Hus, Wyclif, Ecolampad, and Calvin. This Counter-­Reformation painting, with its simple message, affirmed that spiritual exercises were the best way to combat heresy and immoralities.86 It also is one among many pieces of evidence of the centrality of Spiritual Exercises (1522–24) to Jesuit self-­understanding in Latin America.87 The rigorous exercises taught that one way to achieve self-­control was to envision hell: “First

a l and obsessed with confessions  43

point: to see in imagination the great fires and the souls enveloped, as it were, in bodies of fire. Second point: to hear the wailing, the screaming, cries, and blasphemies against Christ our Lord and all His saints. Third point: To smell the smoke, the brimstone, the corruption, and rottenness. Fourth point: to taste bitter things, as tears, sadness, and remorse of conscience. Fifth point: with the sense of touch, to feel how the flames surround and burn souls.” After this spiritual exercise, one was to envision Christ and be grateful that one had not committed sins. The phrase “Behold the sin” appears over and over in Ignacio’s volume.88 It is unlikely that indigenous people from the countryside who passed through Cuzco on their trade routes ever glimpsed and understood the picture of Ignacio and his book. For the Jesuits, hell signified an imperative to examine oneself and others.89 And when being confronted with indigenous sins, the priest, according to Acosta, should interrogate, instruct, and instill fear.90 Thus, in this respect as well, the image of Carabuco pointed to a basic Jesuit instructional process and acquired political force during the seventeenth century. First, the priest was to make the Indians behold their sins. Second, he should make their untrained eyes behold these horrifying creatures of hell, depicted with singularly gruesome bloodthirstiness.91 Jesuits believed in the power of images as a tool of evangelization.92 And the Jesuit Ludovico Bertonio had explicitly given in Aymara detailed examples of what hell and purgatory meant. He suggested to any Aymara-­speaking priest to make a knowledgeable Indian read these examples aloud in front of the congregation.93 We should imagine that Carabuco’s indigenous people walked out of their church after mass in fear. Against this backdrop—the Inca and Andean notion of sin, joined with Acosta’s preoccupation with confessions—it is clear why the image of hell in the church of Carabuco juxtaposed a Jesuit and an indigenous religious specialist hearing confessions. Both kinds of confessors operated and continued to operate in their own fashion until at least the second half of the seventeenth century. In 1614, for example, the religious specialists of Concepción de Chupas were continuing with their rituals of confession.94 Fernando de Avendaño (ca. 1580–1655) described the resiliency of a confessional ritual in his Relación de las idolatrías (1617),95 repeating his ideas in Sermones de los misterios de nuestra santa fe católica (1649).96 Avendaño drew his knowledge from his interrogations of hechizeros as an appointed “visitator of idolatries” (from 1617 onward), where he (together with José de Arriaga [1563–1622],

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the other great Jesuit connoisseur of Andean rituals, whom we will discuss in more detail later) visited Andean villages in the coastal area around Huacho and, already from 1614 to 1615, in the highlands around Cajatambo.97 Indigenous “superstitions” were a particular thorn in Avendaño’s side, and his determination to pluck them out was paired with great rhetorical skills.98 He was truly appalled by the fact that Andeans used confessions in case of sicknesses and in other matters.99 What in 1577 had seemed to Acosta a welcome opening for introducing Jesuit confessions was now highly undesirable. Acosta had not foreseen that the ychuris, like the Jesuits themselves, could adapt to their new colonial environment—for example, redefining their canon of sins to include going to church.

Redefining Andean “sins” Throughout the seventeenth century, the problem for Jesuits continued to be that the Andeans obviously had a different definition of sin and that they still addressed Andean religious specialists on that matter. For the ychuris, it was sinful to not worship the huaca. For any Peruvian Christian, and especially Peruvian Jesuit, the exact opposite—­ worshipping a huaca—was considered a sin. Any Peruvian Christian who began to see the hechizeros as the opponents of their honest and necessary efforts to evangelize would have considered it a simple task to add the worship of huacas to his list of forbidden sins. The image at Carabuco showed that it was sinful to confess to an indigenous priest and, likewise, to dance to an indigenous musician. That the musician shown is specifically a drum player fits colonial notions of hechi­ zeros.100 Once the musician was originally depicted holding not a drum but a harp. The artist was probably urged to make the change so that the painting’s message would be clear. Playing the harp was a practice valued among good Catholic Amerindians, whereas playing the drum or the flute was considered to be hechizero activity.101 Thus, the defining lines between orthodox and heterodox behavior of hechizeros or Indians were subject to constant redefinition. The Andean world required a keen eye for detail. It was full of contested meanings that spoke in different ways to its many inhabitants. When the Jesuits developed the model of making indigenous people and, in particular, Andean religious specialists, confess, they did this to prohibit Andean rituals and to more effectively undermine it with their own symbolic meanings and ideas (for example, by exchanging harps

a l and obsessed with confessions  45

for drums). Yet the practice that they initiated nearly escaped their control. The lists of indigenous sins that Christians produced in their inquiries into the rituals of Quechua and Aymara natives (either in inquiries of quipucamayocs (cord keepers), or in inquiries of incarcerated hechizeros, or in formal visitation processes, or, and only indirectly, in confessions that should conduct the penitent to penitence) and that got first published in the Confessionario para los curas de indios of 1585 and later on in different handbooks for priests, as well as in those Confessional Manuals that were adapted to more local indigenous traditions, became longer and longer, and ever more detailed during the seventeenth century.102 These lists both expose specific local customs at a certain moment in time and capture pan-­Andean symbolic meanings. It is easy to imagine that these lists of sins must have begun to confuse those priests who were honestly trying to hear confessions from ordinary Andeans and religious specialists when they sat in their confessionals (in Julí, for example, the confessionals were wooden cubicles in which the priest sat in front of the Jesuit emblem, JHS—Jesum habemus socium or Jesu humilis societas—painted into a heavenly cloud that radiated rays of the sun). The Decalogue was simple in comparison. To take one example, in 1585 the nineteenth sermon of the third catechism in the Doctrina Christiana rated—among other things—the following deeds as sinful: venerating a llallahua (a dried corncob, some inherited figure, or an unusual potato); keeping a pirva (a storage place usually for grain) in the house and making a procession in honor of it; possessing huacanquis (certain herbs or signals in nature that were used for love magic); sprinkling the sun, the earth, or the fire with two fingers of chicha in order to evade evil events; and believing that the owl’s song or a dog’s yowl was a sign of death. It was superstitious to believe that the buzzing of an ear or a person’s stumbling was a bad omen, to put clothes on the street in the hope that sickness would thereby be carried away, and to fasten a corncob or braid of hair to one’s house, trusting that this act would protect the members of the household.103 A few paragraphs later in the same manual, the catalogue of forbidden superstitions was expanded to include the indigenous belief that a poor potato crop was caused by the anger or displeasure of their huacas.104 Finally, the sermon proclaimed, “Don’t believe that the huacas provide you with health and food . . . ; don’t ask hechizeros for remedies for your needs; don’t let them cure you with their words; don’t let them blow on or suck your body.”105 Therefore, enumerating alleged Andean sins became a Peruvian Catholic obsession from the late sixteenth to mid-­

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seventeenth century. Even though the Franciscan Luis Jerónimo de Oré (1554–1630), in his Rituale, seu manuale Peruanum, satisfied himself with a skeletal enumeration of “sins” in his Confessionario of 1607,106 Pérez Bocanegra (?–1645), a third-­order Franciscan, extensively captured in his Ritual formulario, e institución de curas (completed in 1622, published in 1631) Andean rituals in the environs of Cuzco.107 Pérez Bocanegra concluded his list of one hundred and twenty-­seven questions by admonishing the confessant: “Whenever you did any of the things just described [any of the one hundred and twenty-­seven Andean ritual performances or beliefs] or whenever you believed in their efficacy, you have committed a grave sin.”108 In 1649 Pedro de Villagómez (d. 1671), another of the determined visitators of idolatries who will receive much attention later in this book, augmented with new and more specific knowledge of Andean rituals, through the many visitations into the hinterland of Lima, Ondegardo’s original list.109 Without doubt, almost every ritual that Andeans performed during early colonial times came to be suspected by Catholic priests and visitators to be a great sin. But among the most important questions in these Confessional Manuals were offenses against the First Commandment and the questions: “Have you confessed with an hechizero? Did you consult an hechizero for healing or divination? Are you an hechi­ zero?”110 The hechizero was truly considered the one who inhibited the spread of Christianity. Did any of these apparently tedious catalogues of sins ever lead to success? Did the confessors get the answers they were looking for? In some respects, yes; in others, no. The four strategies of the Society of Jesus—incarceration, accommodation to Andean myths, indoctrination via images, and confession to combat the idolatries of the common people and especially of those of whom they labeled hechizeros—moved many Andeans to assimilate to Christianity. But Catholic stigmatizations of indigenous practices and of Andean hechi­ zeros and their activities prompted a first response from religious specialists, who held conversion to Christianity to be a grave sin and at the root of the sickness that Spaniards had brought to the Andes. Other responses were to follow.

Chapter Two

Civil Versus Ecclesiastical Authorities

The Jesuits, more than any other order, were to determine the fate of thousands of indigenous religious specialists in Lima, the southern Andes, and beyond. Their three-­ pronged strategy of confession, incarceration of religious specialists, and reeducation spread westward from Lake Titicaca to the archdiocese of Lima.1 There it was transformed into a unique political program charged with exceptional ecclesiastical power. From 1583, 1609, and especially from 1621 onward, Jesuit preoccupations turned into an ideology of a new and, in the seventeenth century, radical persecution politics with the Jesuits continuing in the role of ideologues until the late 1640s. With their increasingly systematic search for indigenous idolatry and their precise means of identifying situational acts of evil sorcery, Jesuits successfully shaped the perspective of many visitators as they searched for practices and instruments viewed as idolatrous, superstitious, or hechizero/a.2 But before this rise of the Jesuits as shapers of a program that determined the fate of religious specialists, one that gripped the entire archdiocese of Lima and was implemented in their missions as well, even in the absence of such a close collaboration with bishops as in the archdiocese of Lima, Peruvian religious specialists were not originally placed under primary surveillance by ecclesiastical supervision. In 1572, Viceroy Francisco de Toledo (1569–81) insisted on established lines of the joint procedure of civil and ecclesiastical authorities in matters of indigenous hechi­ zería and in their punishment, but made determined efforts to subject indigenous teachers of hechizería to capital punishment because he disapproved of exempting indigenous people from the Inquisition.3 To sixteenth-­century religious specialists, this play of political forces might have seemed a distant storm, but instead it posed a serious threat. A close look at the decisive year 1572 shows that in a time of heightened

48  The power of huacas

tensions, increased Inca threat in the Vilcabamba, and vibrant rumors of attacks on the viceroy by hechizeros, Toledo strove to find a solution to the problem of hechizería—according to him, a final one.

A year of fateful decisions The year 1572, crucial in the history of colonial Peru, was equally momentous for the history of hechizería. On March 4, 1572, Sarmiento de Gamboa (1532–92) finished the last pages of his briskly produced History of the Incas.4 Within the space of two years, Sarmiento had concluded his investigations into the Inca past and put them in persuasive written form.5 The frontispiece adorning the manuscript sent to Philip II—obviously designed by Sarmiento himself—played on Charles V’s motto, “plus ultra.”6 Two columns framed the coat of arms of Castilla and León. One column contained a sign depicting a man with an armillary sphere in his right hand, his left hand pointing to the sun. The man was set directly on the Atlantic—a somewhat clumsy allegory of Atlas as that ocean.7 The maritime theme also alluded to the author, a successful navy officer who crossed the seas as easily as the wind. But Sarmiento de Gamboa had interests beyond those displayed in this self-­representation fashioned for official consumption. He was an avid talismanic astrologer who exhibited sympathy toward Andean necromancers even as he provided a plethora of evidence on the Incas’ tyrannical regime. Six months later, on September 24, 1572, Viceroy Toledo gave the order to execute Tupac Amaru, the Incas’ last official heir.8 Despite verbal protests by several church authorities, Spanish soldiers brutally beheaded the king on Cuzco’s former main square, the Haucaypata. Now, Toledo thought, he had put the final touch to the last chapter of Inca history. He rushed to Potosí and to a new battlefield. In the name of the Crown, he fought the Chiriguanos in the lowlands of Bolivia. These Indians, also known as the Guaranís, would ultimately become members of the Audiencia of Charcas, based in Chuquisaca. As Toledo’s military commander, Sarmiento de Gamboa was deeply involved in this endeavor. Yet his luck was soon to run out: Toledo’s expedition failed. Like the Incas in the Vilcabamba, the Chiriguanos offered serious resistance.9 Around the same time, an indigenous rebellion threatened the Spanish viceroyalty. Beginning in 1565, indigenous religious specialists in the so-­called Taki Onkoy rebellion pledged to resurrect their huacas. And while Viceroy Toledo was trying to organize the state from his residence in the high Andes, a new era began for

civil versus ecclesiastical authorities  49

the Jesuits in Lima. José de Acosta arrived in the City of the Kings in 1572.10 In Joannes de Zuñiga’s eyes, Acosta was the apostle of new hope. Only he could clean the Augean stable that the young Jesuit province of Peru had become.11 The completion of Sarmiento’s History, the execution of Tupac Amaru, the Taki Onkoy, and the arrival of José de Acosta seem at first unrelated episodes in Peruvian history, united simply by a coincidence of time and space. Yet, as I will show, each of these events is meaningfully interconnected.12 Only when we examine them together can we understand why religious specialists turned into the heirs of the Incas. An examination of political events in the year 1572 also deepens our understanding of how Jesuits managed to rise to political prominence under the auspices of José de Acosta. Acosta, who was introduced in the previous chapter, became the decisive architect of the Third Council of Lima and wrote De procuranda indorum salute (1588). Both of these cultural productions help us understand how Jesuit dominance over religious specialists in the missions presented a “middle ground” between the envisioned rigid regime against hechizeros and the more lenient or less potent responses of other religious orders—namely, the activities of the less politically influential Augustinians, the more disinterested Dominicans, and the inclusive Franciscans, whose campaign to incorporate religious specialists into the native Christian tradition we will examine in chapter 7.

Religious specialists and the Spanish conquest While Inca Titu Cusi Yupanqui (ca. 1535–71) was hiding in the Vilcabamba in the 1560s, the Cuzco priest Cristóbal de Molina made a disquieting discovery. Molina had heard from another priest, Luís de Olivera, that indigenous hechizeros were roaming through the countryside in Huamanga, Cuzco, Chuquisaca, Chuquiabo, Arequipa, and Lima, preaching terrifying messages to their fellow Indians.13 Rumors had spread among the Indians that the Spaniards planned to kill them in order to make a certain medical unguent, which they would send to their mother country. Spaniards created this substance out of the flesh and fat of Indians who visited Spanish houses to trade goods.14 Thus, according to these Indians, Spanish soldiers were no longer the only threat. Rather, ordinary Spaniards, encomenderos, officials, and traders, all seeking profit, were also perfidiously luring Indians to their deaths. The terrified Indians started to avoid any personal contact with Span-

50  The power of huacas

iards in their houses. Of particular concern to Spaniards was the news that indigenous priests were telling their people that the huacas, their guardians, had deserted their lands. Since the arrival of the Spaniards a generation earlier, huacas had been forced to live in the air, and had almost died of thirst and hunger. The religious specialists argued that the Spaniards who were responsible for the sufferings of the huacas— and the resulting suffering and hardship of the people—had enjoyed the protection of “Dios nuestro Señor.” Meanwhile, the Indians had been weakened, bereft of their protecting huacas. But now, the indigenous argument went, times had changed. Now, after thirty years of repression, the huacas would be resurrected. The time had come for the Indians to overthrow Spanish rule. Once that overthrow was accomplished, the huacas would come back to life, restored to their former power. The activities of these indigenous priests came to be known as Taki Onkoy.15 Though it is sometimes classified as an indigenous rebellion, the Taki Onkoy did not urge Indians to take up arms.16 Instead, indigenous priests appealed for a spiritual revival and a return to Andean—though not necessarily Inca—religion.17 Only such a return would heal their land from the state of sickness into which it had fallen. This was indeed a frightening prophecy for Spaniards, given that there was an Inca still alive. As these ideas spread through the valleys and plateaus of the Andes, ultimately reaching Indians along the coast, Spaniards did not remain passive observers. Their first response came from Cuzco. By 1570, the Cabildo Ecclesiastico (Ecclesiastical Chapter) of Cuzco had appointed Cristóbal de Albornoz, an ordained secular priest, as visitator to extirpate the heresies from Huamanga.18 One year later, Albornoz was given the royal command to persecute hechizeros in Parinacochas and Andahuaylas. A vain and ambitious man, Albornoz repeatedly wrote to high officials in Peru and Spain seeking acknowledgment of his efforts to extirpate indigenous idolatries. By 1583 he had begun to long for the episcopal throne in Cuzco—without success. In writing about the regions he had visited during the 1570s, he had relied on earlier Spanish observations. But in his Informaciones de servicios of 1570 and 1584, with which he hoped to establish his authority in the region, Albornoz did not hesitate to put the same definition of the “Taqui Ongo” in the mouth of every single witness testifying on the supposed crimes of hechizeros: “Many Indians followed the Taqui Ongo sect, also called Aira, and they said that they would not believe in God nor in his commandments, nor would they adore crosses and images, nor would they

civil versus ecclesiastical authorities  51

enter churches, and [they said] that they would confess with those who fasted according to their rights and ceremonies as in the time of the Incas, and not with the [Christian] clergy.”19 In short, Albornoz was interested in the details of Andean rituals and religion only insofar as they enabled him to provide long lists of local huacas and equally long lists of incarcerated Indians and hechizeros.20 Albornoz’s informants were curacas, encomenderos, and priests. They were all asked what they knew about indigenous preachers. Despite making some dubious distinctions, Albornoz broadly defined hechizeros and accomplices of the Taki Onkoy as anyone who worshipped huacas and who did not “believe in God, nor in his commandments, would not adore crosses and images,” and so forth.21 Albornoz disciplined entire villages, punished alleged accomplices, condemned supposed participants to church service or indoctrination, and destroyed the “idolatrous” huacas. Of course, he also asked Indians whether they worshipped the seventy “resurrected” huacas, whether they “feasted [on] salt and ají,” and whether they still performed sacrifices, despite the fact that the huacas had officially been defeated. Furthermore, Albornoz assured his readers that he “castigated many others among the said indigenous people, hechiceros as well as diviners and the people who consulted them in matters of marriage and incest in the first and second and other degrees, and many other crimes.”22 For him, hechizeros were nothing but evil seeds, and he punished a staggering number of people. Albornoz, who twice represented Bishop Lartaún in Cuzco, remained in charge of the persecution of hechizeros in the southern Andes until the 1590s. Even his own troubles with the Inquisition in Lima could not weaken his determination to extirpate idolatries. He also had a profound influence through his protégés on the future of indigenous hechi­ zeros. One of his helpers, Guaman Poma de Ayala, showed great admiration for Albornoz, while at the same time sympathizing with Andean religious beliefs.23 Yet it was Cristóbal de Molina—about whose actual extirpation practices we know nothing—who best captured the Andean logic that was behind the actions of the Taki Onkoy priests. Molina added the brief but thorough account of this Indian “apostasy” of the Taki Onkoy to his calm and careful work on Inca and Andean religious customs24—even though it somewhat marred the organization of his Relación—because he and other Spaniards greatly feared the power of indigenous priests. Spaniards seem to have been taken by surprise by the still profound influence of Andean priests over their fellow Indians—an influence that could extend across huge dis-

52  The power of huacas

tances and that included many groups. As the Taki Onkoy showed, the indigenous priests’ understanding of current and past events continued to be accepted by many Indians living in an area that stretched from the high Andes of Cuzco to Huamanga and even to Lima. Spaniards feared the religious specialists’ ideological might. These indigenous priests argued that Christianity might be good for Spaniards, but not for them. They—the Andeans—needed the protection of the huacas. These religious specialists also spread the belief among Indians that Spaniards would steal their blood and body fat, elements that were and continue to be symbols of life in the Andes.25 Thus, these priests were in essence discussing how to organize a society in which two cultures could coexist: one for Spaniards, and one for Indians. The indigenous priests of the Taki Onkoy era had clearly given up hope that Spaniards could be expelled from their country. Unfortunately, the chroniclers don’t allow us to determine conclusively whether the Inca-­centric emphasis in some records shows that the priests placed their hope in the Incas or former Inca priests or instead reflects the Spaniards’ preoccupation, though there is reason to suspect the latter. The priests associated with the Taki Onkoy placed greater stress on the worship of local huacas, an emphasis with two possible explanations. They might have thought that neither Titu Cusi nor Tupac Amaru was strong enough to recapture the Inca religious center, the Qoricancha, or they might have renewed their commitment to local huacas because the huacas had always been more highly valued than the Inca cult. What the Taki Onkoy thus showed the Spaniards was that Andean religious identity was still imbued with considerable power—a power that could overcome the respect and fear that Indians may have felt toward the Spaniards, who had by now taken up residence in the former Inca palaces in Cuzco and begun to act the part of overlords. The intrinsic limitations of Spanish-­produced source material make it difficult to see whether the Taki Onkoy priests shunned violence.26 The Spaniards thought not. According to Molina’s investigations, huacas had already “planted many fields with worms to infect Spanish hearts and life-­stock of Castille, horses, and the hearts of those Indians that remain Christian.”27 The meaning of this claim remains uncertain, and it seems unlikely that indigenous people literally bred worms to kill Spaniards. We should remember that worms were a powerful symbol in the Andean world, associated with any state of sickness as well as death.28 Certainly, fear may have been one author of this assertion, and misunderstanding another.

civil versus ecclesiastical authorities  53

Toledo’s vision of the treatment of hechizeros While indigenous priests were raising hopes regarding the resurrection of the huacas and Spanish-­Andean coexistence, Viceroy Toledo left Lima on October 22, 1570, with a lawyer, a captain, a cosmographer, a naturalist, a medical doctor, and some church officials.29 He was headed to Cuzco via Xauxa and Huamanga. This trip, Toledo’s visita general of 1570–75, was to become synonymous with his will to enforce law and order. On his way, Toledo made his companions interrogate curacas and Indians in order to determine the Inca legal claim to these lands. Each step brought new insights into Inca history, and each step nourished Toledo’s conviction that the Incas had conquered these people unjustly. Some erudite individuals have praised Toledo for having introduced law and order to colonial Peru.30 Others have seen in him a political tyrant who, without legal justification or the consent of Philip II, ordered the execution of Tupac Amaru.31 Toledo was much inspired by Juan de Matienzo (1520–79), an adviser who had a particularly low opinion of indigenous people, whom he liked to depict as herb-­chewing brutes.32 Nevertheless, Toledo wanted to protect the Indians from the regular abuses of encomenderos.33 While on his visita general, Toledo also appointed auxiliary visitators to inspect regions that did not lie along his own path. Visitators went to Huancavelica, Chucuito, Lambayeque, Guayaquil, Quito, Huánuco, and Chachapoyas. Along with their other responsibilities, they were directed to rein in the abuses by hundreds of encomenderos who were thought to be using the Leyes Nuevas (New Laws, 1542) to exploit Indians through the mita (tribute system) and through commerce in coca, mullus (Spondylus shells), and other items.34 Toledo supplied these visitators with a long list of questions that they were to take out of their saddlebags when approaching an ha­ cienda, village, or tambo (supply post).35 It was during Toledo’s visita in the cities of the former Tawantinsuyo, and particularly in Cuzco, that he developed a special interest in idolatry and, later on, in hechizeros.36 In June 1571, the viceroy had instructed his loyal visitators to persecute hechizeros, imprison them, and make them work.37 This directive was clearly a response to the Taki Onkoy movement. In Huamanga, Albornoz had told Toledo about the hechizeros involved in the Taki Onkoy and the progress he had made in extirpating these idolatries. By 1572, Molina might have informed Toledo of the structure of Spanish and indigenous coexistence envisioned by many of these indigenous priests. As the visitators witnessed in their travels, indigenous idola-

54  The power of huacas

tries—or practices construed as such by Spaniards—were widespread. And the hechizeros increasingly seemed to Spaniards to be the “ideologues” behind these indigenous idolatries. Even more threatening to the Spaniards, the Taki Onkoy seemingly revealed a pan-­Andean ideological coherence that transcended any local cult or shrine.38 But then, only three months after his first instruction, Toledo issued a second, more elaborate, and far more severe edict regarding hechizeros. In this new instruction of September 8, 1572, Toledo granted civil and ecclesiastical authorities the right to sentence the dogmatizers, the leaders and teachers among indigenous hechizeros, with capital punishment. What had prompted this changed approach?

An assassination averted On July 4, 1571, the thirty-­year-­old Doña Ysabel Julia approached the civil authorities of Cuzco and accused a twenty-­nine-­year-­old priest, Juan de Luna, of “certain spells against his Majesty with the intention of murder.”39 Doña Ysabel said she had witnessed Luna visiting a black woman named Juana. Allegedly, Luna had asked Juana whether she knew how to cast spells on the viceroy. Juana told him of an Indian acquaintance who was skilled in freezing the ocean. Doña Ysabel asserted that she had previously approached Luna and asked him whether he intended to make “hechizos” against the viceroy. Luna denied it. But other witnesses—among them the viceroy’s servants, Cuzco’s capitular, Doña Ysabella’s servant, and several important inhabitants of Cuzco—claimed that Luna had, indeed, searched for hechizos or hechi­ zeros. These witnesses brought to light a slew of confusing details about Luna’s activities. It seems that before moving to Cuzco, Luna had been Toledo’s chaplain. But during his visita in Huamanga, Toledo had dismissed Luna, accusing him of robbery.40 Toledo confiscated Luna’s clothes (probably his priest’s robes) and planned to exile him from Peru. Somehow Luna managed to stay in the country and ultimately went to Cuzco. Since that day of utter humiliation in Huamanga, Luna had obviously exerted every effort to regain Toledo’s respect. And so, according to his own account, Luna set out to find Indian hechizeros who might help him regain his honor. Luna claimed never to have had any intention of killing his esteemed master. As witnesses from Toledo’s entourage agreed, he had approached the viceroy’s servant to seek Toledo’s cuspidor. He also, according to at least one witness, gave Toledo’s servant some powders

civil versus ecclesiastical authorities  55

to throw into the cooking pots in the viceroy’s kitchen. Furthermore, Luna had asked a Cuzco baker whether she knew an Indian woman who could protect him from the viceroy’s evil will. Finally, Luna had unquestionably given Ysabel a cloth that the viceroy should use to brush his teeth or his head and if things would work out well, he would make her queen of Peru. Some testified that they advised Luna to visit the church to regain his honor instead of taking the path of the devil by using hechizerías. Indeed, according to another priest, Luna had tried to confess, but that confession had been a failure. Toledo had not reinstated him to honor. Thus, there was no question that Luna had sought help from hechizeros. The whole debate between Luna and the witnesses centered on the question of whether his hechizos were intended to serve evil or positive functions. On July 7, Luna was finally asked to confess. He denied the alleged robbery in Cuzco and said that he had only helped another black person who had stolen three (silver) plates and one pot. Asked whether he had ever employed hechizeros against the viceroy, Luna vehemently denied it. He also denied that he had ever searched for an Indian hechizera, that he had promised Doña Ysabel she would be queen of Peru with the help of an Indian woman, and that he had given her (poisoned) powders for the viceroy. In the end, Cuzco’s civil court decided to prosecute Luna in Cuzco instead of sending him back to Spain, and the mayor handed Luna over to the cathedral’s ecclesiastical chapter, convinced that Luna had indeed tried to kill the viceroy. Finally, Luna was moved from the civil to the episcopal prison.

The dogmatizers among the hechizeros shall receive capital punishment The accusation against Luna increased Toledo’s fears of hechizeros, which began to torment him continuously. The incident was certainly one reason for Toledo’s instruction of September 8, 1572, urging ecclesiastical and civil authorities to persecute and prosecute hechizeros more persistently and relentlessly. It granted the right to civil authorities to apply capital punishment to native dogmatizers, to those teachers and leaders in things related to hechizería, and even to those who were not Christians.41 To ensure due process, ecclesiastical authorities were first to investigate the state of Christianity of the already baptized Indian hechizero. If the hechizero turned out to be of good Christian understanding, the delinquent had to be punished with utmost rigor within

56  The power of huacas

the framework of existing laws. If the hechizero, however, turned out to be a dogmatizer, and even though he was baptized or infidel, then the clerics were to ultimately hand the case over to the civil authorities— that is, to the Audiencia for punishment. Thus, with the issuing of this decree, capital punishment could be applied to hechizeros who were considered teachers and leaders of hechizería.42 In Spanish civil law, such treatment of hechizeros was generally allowed.43 In 1538, Pedro Ciruelo reiterated that hechizeros should be treated as murderers and therefore given capital punishment. His reason was that hechizeros killed people and were traitors of the republic.44 In fact, civil authorities in sixteenth-­century Spain often proved more determined in their persecution of hechizeros than were the ecclesiastical authorities.45 In this respect, Toledo’s Peru was to be no exception. Toledo’s constitution followed the principle of mixto fore, according to which both the civil and ecclesiastical authorities could prosecute hechizeros, the civil arm being held in charge of physical punishment.46 This law meant that from September 1571 onward, any indigenous religious specialist who had already been baptized and instructed in the Christian faith but who still worshipped huacas and was considered by the capacious category of a dogmatizador was at the mercy of civil and ecclesiastical authorities and risked capital punishment. Toledo’s new instruction served to suddenly radicalize previous legislation within Peru and to put the persecution of hechizeros on the political agenda. This directive is also notable as the first civil and royal legislation against hechizeros in Peruvian history with national scope.47 Previously, during the First and Second Councils of Lima, the church had issued similarly far-­ranging laws against hechizeros, but both councils had advised admonishment, corporal punishment, banishment, or imprisonment. The death penalty was not their aim.48 Toledo’s sudden intensification of the law against hechizeros and infidel dogmatizers had many causes, including Toledo’s failure to mandate indigenous people to the Inquisition, Molina’s account of indigenous hechizeros who planted worms to infect Spaniards and their horses, and, even more likely, the rumored attempt to poison the viceroy, described above. Such reports exacerbated Toledo’s paranoia and perhaps made him recall a similar incident of which he might have heard in the Audiencia of Lima in 1547, when an indigenous herbalist attempted to kill a conquistador.49 Now that Toledo feared for his own life, he stretched the umbrella term of hechizería to put baptized as

civil versus ecclesiastical authorities  57

well as non-­Christian indigenous religious dogmatizadores into the same category as Spanish, mulatto, and Creole sorcerers.50 At this extremely tense moment, Viceroy Toledo had to decide the fate of the last Inca, Tupac Amaru. In fact, Tupac Amaru seems to be the first victim of Toledo’s new law. Tupac Amaru was equated with dogmatizadores hechizeros, and Andean religious specialists with him. They became the heirs of the Incas.

Tupac Amaru, the first victim of the new legisl ation aimed at hechizeros Toledo’s new legislation against hechizeros turned out to be highly problematic, its details resting on a nebulous hermeneutical structure. Who was to decide whether a given indigenous hechizero had already been adequately indoctrinated? Who was to decide if he was a Christian who had deliberately abandoned the true doctrine? Who was to decide if the hechizero was a dogmatizer or not? The punishment of Tupac Amaru was the first test case, illustrating the inherent problems that characterized this law—and here the legal principle of mixto fore did not work. While ecclesiastical authorities defended Tupac Amaru, insisting that he had honestly converted to the orthodox Christian faith, the head of the secular authority and proxy of the patron of the church did not believe his ecclesiastical advisers. Toledo ordered that Tupac Amaru be executed. It must have been a pitiful sight when an officer dragged Inca Tupac Amaru into Cuzco with a chain around his neck. Guaman Poma de Ayala, who perhaps was present on that day in 1572, depicted the scene as analogous to a Christian procession, so that the Spanish soldiers appeared to be carrying a monstrance (see figure 2.1).51 In fact, they bore the idol of Punchao in front of them, adorned, according to Guaman Poma de Ayala, with the corona typical of a silver or gold monstrance in Peru. Two officers bearing lances followed the Andean idol. At the procession’s end walked Tupac Amaru, with his head down and his hands in a gesture of prayer. Guaman Poma de Ayala intentionally did not include the tears that he had depicted on the Inca’s face in Martín de Murúa’s Galvin Manuscript, which the Mercedarian friar concluded around 1590.52 Guaman Poma also transformed the crossed arms that he had depicted in Murúa’s Galvin manuscript into a gesture of prayer. This depiction of the last Inca as a humble Christian and the idol Punchao as the visual center of a Spanish procession

Figure 2.1. The capture of Tupac Amaru. From Guaman Poma de Ayala, Nueva

corónica (1615), 449. Courtesy of the Royal Library, Copenhagen, Denmark.

civil versus ecclesiastical authorities  59

is a striking inversion. Did Guaman Poma perhaps hope to suggest that the Spaniards—in their search for the Incas and the idol Punchao—had come close to worshipping the idol themselves?53 Months after his conviction, Tupac Amaru was made to stand on the Haucaypata and publicly renounce the idol Punchao.54 In the intervening period, Jesuits, Augustinians, Mercedarians, and Franciscans had worked tirelessly to convert him. By the fall of 1572, they had come to the conclusion that Tupac Amaru’s conversion was honest and well rooted. But malicious rumors circulated throughout Cuzco about the murder of an Augustinian friar who had been killed in the Vilcabamba while attempting to convert Tupac Amaru.55 And though Tupac Amaru received lessons in Christianity, Toledo began to seriously doubt the success of previous conversions. As reports about the Taki Onkoy and the poison affair underscored, hechizeros of whatever racial background continued to pose a danger—despite baptism and careful indoctrination. For Toledo, Tupac Amaru—the last legal heir of the Inca rulers— belonged in the same category as other Indian hechizeros whose conversions had not neutralized their threat. Toledo might have seen in Tupac Amaru a leader or dogmatizer whose influence was so great that only capital punishment could put an end to it; it is no wonder that three weeks later, in September 1572, he concluded that Tupac Amaru’s conversion was not reason enough to set him free. Toledo treated Tupac Amaru no differently than any other infidel dogmatizers, except in the way in which he was killed. Dogmatizers were to be killed by burning (much like heretics), while beheading was reserved for the Inca.56 The beheading of Tupac Amaru remains an unhealed wound in the flesh of Indian and Creole history. José de Acosta was convinced that the murder of Inca leaders—first Atahualpa and then Tupac Amaru—was a fatal error. But even before the execution of Tupac Amaru, Toledo had already sent new visitators, Ramírez de Quiñones and Antonio López de Haro, through the southern Andes to uproot indigenous hechizeros and lead the dogmatizers among them to the stake. In a 1580 ordinance, Toledo threatened corregidores with capital punishment if they did not denounce the hechizeros.57 Now that the last Inca had been killed, the so-­called indigenous hechizeros became the country’s new enemies. Neither Sarmiento de Gamboa, who was one of Toledo’s closest advisers, nor the Jesuits had the will or influence to prevent the execution of Tupac Amaru or the newly determined efforts to persecute and prosecute hechizeros. It appears that Sarmiento de Gamboa had little interest in saving Tupac Amaru; many believe that his Historia de los

60  The power of huacas

incas helped persuade Toledo to kill the last Inca. However, while Sarmiento may have urged Toledo to execute his Inca rival, his own view of indigenous hechizeros—which to date has received no attention from historians—was quite different from Toledo’s rigid attitude. Indeed, had the viceroy shared Sarmiento’s interests, the history of the legislation on hechizeros in the 1570s might have taken a very different course. Sarmiento’s unusual opinion of indigenous hechizeros not only hints at his own interest in talismanic astrology and rings with unusual powers, but also encouraged Toledo (albeit indirectly) to spare the arts and bodies of indigenous hechizeros. Unlike Toledo, who feared the stunning capacities of indigenous hechizeros, Sarmiento marveled at them. Pedro Sarmiento de Gamboa was an artist in dissimulation. He knew how to survive the political friction between the viceroy Don Diego López de Zúñiga y Velasco, Conde de Nieva (1561–64), and the newly erected inquisitional court in late sixteenth-­century Lima.58 This is not to say that he managed to avoid all unpleasant encounters with the political and religious elite. Although Sarmiento had been the viceroy’s esteemed court astrologer and had carved three magical rings on the viceroy’s behalf, in 1564 Lima’s archbishop, Fray Jerónimo de Loaysa, indicted him on charges of necromancy and suspicion of making a pact with the devil.59 He had used a mirror to divine future events. In addition, the three rings that he had fabricated served to “attract the will of men and women, and to gain the power of arms.” Sarmiento defended himself by arguing that theologians like Fray Francisco de la Cruz had approved of these rings, for they conformed to the principles of natural magic. Loaysa sentenced Sarmiento to abjure his interest in magic, especially in judicial astrology, and to leave the country. Yet Loaysa kept the rings among his possessions.60 Viceroy Toledo, who needed the talented man’s strategic and scholarly expertise, called Sarmiento back. Though he apparently returned as Toledo’s court historian rather than his court astrologer,61 Sarmiento retained an interest in analyzing occult influences. He seems to have been convinced that they ruled nature in Peru as they did in Europe. A close reading of Sarmiento’s Historia de los incas can help us infer his thoughts about indigenous magic during the reign of Viceroy Toledo. In that work Sarmiento rails against the tyrannical regimes of the various Incas, from Manco Capac to Atahualpa, but in chapter 46, his tone becomes slightly more gentle. He describes the great boredom that had overtaken Tupac Inca after he had subdued several

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people along the northern coast of Peru. In this dull moment, a group of fishermen reported to Tupac Inca that they had encountered some unknown islands that abounded in great riches—in gold and in people. Tupac Inca knew, according to Sarmiento, that one should not believe fishermen blindly, and he thus decided to ask a man from his entourage, Antarqui, what he thought about the reported lands and riches. In Sarmiento’s words, this Antarqui, “they all declare, was a great necromancer and could even fly through the air.” He continued, “Antarqui answered, after having thought the matter well out, that what they said was true, and that he would go there first. They say that he accomplished this by his arts, traversed the route, saw the islands, their people and riches, and, returning, gave certain information of all to Tupac Inca.”62 The conquest was easy, and Tupac Inca brought back to the mainland black people, gold, a throne of bronze, and the jaw and hide of a horse. These trophies were ultimately stored in the Qoricancha in Cuzco. Sarmiento declared, “I am particular about this because to those who know anything of the Indies, it will appear a strange thing and difficult to believe.”63 Recognizing that his account would strike many as incredible—the horse’s jaw and skin probably aroused the most suspicion—he particularly referred to his eyewitness, Urco Huaranca, who was still the guardian of the trophies when Sarmiento was living in Cuzco. But beyond the details of the story, Sarmiento’s description of An­ tar­qui, the so-­called necromancer, has some unusual elements and displays some sympathy for indigenous hechizeros—a sympathy that Toledo neither shared nor acknowledged. According to common Spanish notions, a necromancer was an evil sorcerer who had made a pact with the devil.64 But although Sarmiento called Antarqui a necromancer, he did not depict him negatively or associate him with demons, despite his ability to fly. In fact, Sarmiento characterized him more as an intellectual than as an irrational demon worshipper.65 By explicitly stating that Antarqui “had thought the matter well out” before taking off for his flight, Sarmiento suggested that Antarqui had perceived the truth by means of his intellect prior to using his exceptional abilities. In fact, in a letter to Philip II, Sarmiento offered a similar description of his own mathematical skills (which had enabled him to discover the Solomon Islands shortly before he had started to write the Historia de los incas on Toledo’s behalf) and thus implicitly associated Antarqui with himself: “God gave me talents, industry, and erudition, especially in mathematics, and even though they are few, I was familiar

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with many undiscovered territories in the Southern Ocean that nobody had discovered before me.”66 We can only guess at the reasons for Sarmiento’s unconventional characterization of Antarqui and speculate about his attitude toward Antarqui’s magical tricks. But there is substantial evidence that Sarmiento himself had an interest in the art of divination, and thus may have sympathized with the Inca’s necromancer. Moreover—and somewhat astonishingly, considering the context in which his history of the Incas was written—Sarmiento named other hechizeros only twice.67 Polo de Ondegardo, in contrast, also a member of Toledo’s staff, gave numerous descriptions of hechizeros in the present as well as in Inca times. In addition, in his reports on Inca priests, Sarmiento did not label them hechizeros, as was commonly done by Murúa, Blas Valera, and others. In this way, Sarmiento indirectly and cautiously pleaded that the distinction between priests, necromancers, and hechizeros be more finely drawn. Viceroy Toledo did not wonder about Sarmiento’s curious silence, nor did it occur to him that Tupac Yupanqui’s necromancer was perhaps much like Sarmiento, his own esteemed officer. But then, Toledo saw nothing positive in any dogmatizer or hechizero, be he Tupac Amaru, Manuel Luna’s collaborators, Antarqui, or an unknown religious specialist.

The decline and rise of the Jesuits’ star At the same time that Sarmiento’s perspective was failing to lessen Toledo’s ill will toward hechizeros, the Jesuits also lost their confrontation with the viceroy over the fate of Tupac Amaru. Neither Alonso de Barzana, Hieronymus Ruiz de Portillo, nor Luis López was able to influence the will and conscience of Toledo.68 At this decisive moment in the history of colonial Peru, indigenous hechizería stood squarely at the center of three different forces: reactions to the Taki Onkoy, Toledo’s distrust of hechizeros, and the Jesuits’ changing position in the political arena. In 1572, the execution of Tupac Amaru dramatically spotlighted Jesuit weakness. By then, the Jesuit province could be said to resemble either the Augean stables or a ship without a captain. The Jesuits lacked direction, and, with their confidence in divine guidance shaken, some members began to lose their moral certitude. Jesuits regularly sent letters across the Atlantic, indicating their demand for directives from Rome about the most basic aspects of organizing Indian missions: Who would pay the Jesuits, the king or the bishop? How should the mission

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schedule be organized? Who had the aptitude to become a missionary? Whom should be made confessor to Spaniards and whom to Indians? Of course, this constant transatlantic dialogue with the central authorities in Rome was a requisite of the order, but Peruvian Jesuits in early times conferred with Rome even on delicate issues and sought guidance on minutia, such as asking, before dismantling parts of Sacsayhuaman, if they might use its stones to build their own church in Cuzco.69 In 1568, the arrival of the Jesuits in the New World had been promising, marked by auspicious signs and general goodwill. On the exact hour when the first six Jesuits landed in Peru in January 1568, an eclipse of the sun occurred.70 According to Didacus de Bracamonte, who was on the ship to Callao, this was a wonderful and promising sign, foretelling great success for Loyola’s followers.71 Shortly thereafter, when an earthquake shook Lima, it was interpreted as yet another sign that God had chosen the Jesuits “as instruments to help the souls of this country.”72 And when Viceroy Toledo set out for the New World the following year, he was very favorably disposed toward the Jesuits; he promised Philip II that he would take special care of them, and made the same promise to his Roman friend, the Jesuit general Francisco Borgia.73 Toledo kept that promise in his first years as viceroy, granting the Jesuits good estates and stipends.74 Before 1571, he consulted with the Jesuits about politics, asked the Jesuit Provincial to read a mass once a week on one of David’s psalms, and confessed regularly to Bartolomé Hernández.75 Not surprisingly, Toledo took three Jesuits along with him on his visita throughout the country: Hieronymus Ruiz de Portillo, the Quechua specialist Alonso de Barzana, and Luis López.76 Obviously, in the years before 1571, the relationship between Toledo and the Jesuits was an entente cordiale. However, at the beginning of the visita general, discord developed between the Jesuits and the viceroy over several issues. They disagreed about tribute payments, and especially about whether Indian fiscals should assist priests with evangelization. Adding to the problem were the significant structural defects in their order’s charters, under which Jesuits labored during the early years. Rome knew about these issues and tried to remedy them, but the discussions with Rome began to affect the chemistry between the Jesuits and the viceroy. On April 19, 1572, Toledo’s confessor, Bartolomé Hernández, expressed his concern in a report to Rome. He had fallen into disagreement with the viceroy about the visita general, and especially about the issue of corregidores of indios.77 Hernández also wrote disparagingly about a certain Domi-

64  The power of huacas

nican, a García de Toledo, who now seemed to have privileged access to the viceroy’s secret chamber.78 Had the Dominicans won greater influence than the Jesuits over Viceroy Toledo? The rivalry between the two orders is rightly notorious. On an official level, Jesuits and Dominicans constantly strove with each other for influence, whether personal, ideological, theological, or practical. This competition was, in essence, a battle for political power.79 Indeed, in 1572 the Jesuits were on the point of losing the battle, and their royal privileges along with it. They lacked a compelling model for indigenous evangelization, such as the Dominicans had produced in the work of Bartolomé de las Casas, and the Dominican Domingo de Santo Tomás had written the first Spanish-­ Quechua dictionary. By 1570, Dominicans staffed Lima’s San Marcos University, the Inquisition, and the archbishop’s see.80 In 1572, Jesuit power was at its lowest ebb, the Jesuits themselves incapable of implementing a unified program. One Jesuit, Luis López, and his antics were a symptom, if not a cause, of the chaos in the Jesuit province in the late 1560s and early 1570s. López was involved in a curious case of exorcism.81 In 1569, a time when only a handful of Jesuits resided in Lima, López wrote a letter to Rome in which he mentioned a certain Dominican—identified by historians as Padre Gasco—who was spreading rumors about Lopéz’s and Ruiz de Portillo’s alleged heresies.82 López did not go into the details of this accusation, but he was clearly upset that Padre Gasco had made their “heresies” a public issue. We now know that these rumors concerned the exorcism of a Spanish woman named María Pizarro. Her case led to the first major series of trials in the history of the Inquisition in Peru, as charges were brought against Fray Francisco de la Cruz, Luis López, Ruiz de Portillo, and even the astrologer and officer Sarmiento de Gamboa.83 This brief episode reveals much about Jesuit convictions about the might of the demons— a conviction that not only came to affect Andean religious specialists, but Jesuits themselves. The episode began in 1569, when María Pizarro was allegedly possessed by a demon.84 Several clerics acted as exorcists, among them Fray Francisco de la Cruz and López himself, who was the lead exorcist. According to María’s 1573 confession, in their nightly exorcism sessions, the Jesuit fell in love with her. They had sexual intercourse in her house, and she ultimately became pregnant.85 Her pregnancy served to corroborate her possession, for her swollen belly was said to house a demon. More importantly, María now confessed that the demon had asked to possess her only after López had engaged in intercourse with

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Map 2.1. Jesuit foundations.

her. According to María, therefore, the demon had simply aped López. The details of these events were probably known to very few initiates.86 And although López had been convicted during the course of Fray Francisco de la Cruz’s trial, he was somehow cleared of charges.87 Indeed, it is curious that over the course of this long trial—which disclosed a clandestine network of prominent figures in Peru who were keenly interested in magic, Indians, and a new Creole society—the Jesuits alone escaped persecution.88 That the Jesuits seemed unassailable was a sign of their rising power in the Creole church under the auspices of José de Acosta. For when Acosta arrived in December 1572, the Jesuit Joannes de Zuñiga wrote that only his arrival brought some “alivio” (relief).89 “Now I feel relieved that I have someone to talk to after Father Joseph arrived. . . . What we do right now is to weep and ask God that he could send some remedy.”90 Indeed, with Acosta, a new era began for both the Jesuit order and the religious specialists. Acosta not only introduced moral honesty into his order, he also proclaimed moral honesty to be a requisite for the missions among the indigenous people. And finally, the missions now became the prime concern of the Jesuit order in Peru.91 With Acosta being the driving force behind

Map 2.2. Jesuit missions.

civil versus ecclesiastical authorities  67

the Third Council of Lima, this marked for the Jesuits the true start of the era of the mission to indigenous people.92 Yet directed towards hechizeros, it proclaimed: One has to separate the ministers of the devil from other Indians in order to exterminate this pest within the Christian faith. Those hechi­ zeros and most evil priests of the demons do not cease to destroy the law of Christ; their ferocity is enormous since they dismantle in one day what took shepherds of Christ one year to erect. In the previous council it was stipulated that all these mostly old, useless, and decrepit people should be congregated in a place where they receive necessary food for their souls and bodies and that they should be held imprisoned so that they may no longer infect other Indians with their contacts. Experience teaches sufficiently how much damage ignoring this beneficial law caused. Therefore, the saintly synod wishes that this law be executed without any excuse or delay and admonishes the priests to fulfill what is necessary. We pledge the royal officials to help assist the priests in their work to bring this healthy norm to completion. They should determine in a quick, reasonable, and prudent manner where and how these ministers of the devil should be taken without damage to the rest.93

And while the Jesuits founded colegios after colegios and ventured onto short- and long-­term missions in search of these Andean hechi­ zeros (see maps 2.1 and 2.2), the religious specialists of the Andean world likewise tried to understand their changing lives. The parameters of their worldview were truly different from the ones Catholics held.

Chapter Three

The Sickening Powers of Christianity: A Response by Andean Religious Specialists

According to colonial Andean religious specialists, their lands’ problems could be summed up in one word: Christianity.1 Christianity was hard to bear, and its agents militant. Andeans were told by Catholic priests to call them “padre Diospayanan Diospa rantin missa rurak”— the “padre” of God, who performs a mass and exchanges it with God.2 Historians can’t know whether Andean people addressed the priests in black, brown, and white habits in the same way.3 But we do know that Andean religious specialists’ distaste for Christians was long lasting.4 They were convinced that Christianity had brought sickness into their world—a belief doubtless encouraged by its literal accuracy. As is well known, thousands of Indians were killed by European epidemics, as Hans Baldung’s and Albrecht Dürer’s figures of death on horseback became a fatal reality in the New World. Indeed, the epidemics spread faster than conquistadors could ride their horses. By the time Pizarro landed in Peru, Andeans had already had their first unpleasant contacts with the Old World. When the epidemics initially struck, Andeans were uninformed about and defenseless against these germs. Later, they tried to understand what had happened to them in their own terms. One product of this search for understanding was the following story, which hinges on a dream—a dream that, like so many in the Andes, was prophetic.5 The dreamer was the eleventh Inca, Huayna Capac, who (much like the fourth Inca, Mayta Capac) came to be known among the Andeans for his prophetic gift.6 His dream was retold and commented on by Juan de Santa Cruz Pachacuti Yamqui Salcamaygua in 1613.7 One day while the Inca was in the north, he dreamed that thousands of unknown people appeared on an almost empty battlefield. (Nobody, Pachacuti interjected, could tell who they were.) On awakening, the wise Huayna Capac understood the dream

the sickening powers of christianity  69

and feared its message. After he returned to his camp near Quito, a chasqui—an Inca postman—appeared and approached him, dressed in a black manta (poncho). He bore a chest and the message that only the Inca was entitled to open it. The key was turned, and butterflies escaped into the air and vanished. The butterflies were interpreted (perhaps by Pachacuti) as the measles, which two days later killed an Inca general. It was said in retrospect that the unknown people of Huayna Capac’s dream were victims gathered on the death fields of the measles epidemic. The Inca himself decided to hide in a quickly erected stone house, sealed with yet another stone. Yet despite all his precautions, Huayna Capac reentered Cuzco as a dead man. And we have to ask ourselves: Was retreat the only response available to the Incas, or even to religious specialists? How could the Andean people fight something that invaded their lands as aggressively and invisibly as these germs? Pachacuti’s myth is rich in meanings. First, it contains the image of the chest; Andeans had come to associate it with the arrival of the Spaniards, who were accompanied by big and small leather chests as they traveled all over the hills and mountains.8 Second, Pachacuti mentioned butterflies. According both to Andean interpreters of signs and to Felipe Guaman Poma de Ayala, these ephemeral creatures were bad omens: they announced sickness and ultimately death.9 Third, and the most salient feature of the story, is the curious house of stone: “[The Inca] gave the order to erect a house of stone so as to hide, and afterward he hid in it, covering it with the same stone, and there he died.”10 What does this mean? Inca houses usually had roofs made out of straw, not stone.11 The Wari people near Huamanga did, in fact, bury their high officials in stone tombs, sealing them with single massive slabs.12 But why did Pachacuti say that this house was sealed “with the same stone” and that the Inca ruler died within it? Both statements are puzzling. As we will see later in the chapter, the image of the Inca ruler dying within a stone suggests his transformation into a stone. Other mythological tales—such as the stories of Ayar Auca, Ayar Uchu, and Manco Capac—describe similar events.13 Yet this interpretation ignores Pachacuti’s reference to the handmade stone structure and the transfer of the Inca’s dead body to Cuzco. A European reader might perhaps resort to splitting up the Inca’s body, so that the soul of the Inca was transformed into a stone, while his dead body was mummified in Cuzco. But this concept of a division between soul and body is European—or, more specifically, Christian. Does it necessarily represent Andean ways of thinking?

70  The power of huacas

As the discussion below, drawing on a second source, will make clear, there is more Andean substrate to this story than a first reading might bring to mind. Pachacuti’s tale of Huayna Capac alludes to the theme of transformation, while at the same time showing curious traces of Christian theology. To gain an understanding of this particular myth and enable it to lead us to the logic of an Andean notion of embodiment of specific powers, we will first consider what Andeans thought about transformation, the logical starting point for an accurate conception of the Andean notion of the holy. At its most basic level, the word trans­ formation implies that something turns into something else.14 With respect to the holy, this might entail the holy—perhaps a numen—being transformed into or perhaps contained in some material object. We might ask whether the Andean world conceived of the holy as being made material. The hackneyed label “animistic,” frequently applied to Andean religion, provides no initial help: it is of European origin, and too often encourages a simplistic and inaccurate understanding. Once we have established the Andean notion of the holy, we will move toward the colonial discourse on figura et veritas (“representation and truth” or, more usefully here, “representation versus embodiment”). Christian and Andean thought diverged on the question of whether the holy was represented or reified by a given object; indeed, no other constellation of ideas within the Andean-­Christian dialogue sparked more mutual misunderstanding (see chapter 4). As we will see, Andean religious specialists and Christian priests contended fiercely over their understandings of the holy; there were many unexpected moves on both sides, and the battleground stretched from centers of political and religious authority to villages deep in the Andean countryside. At the beginning of the Andean-­Christian encounter, however, the struggle took place in the arena of political power. How did it compare with other religious conflicts in Andean memory?

Andean memories of the competition between different cults and beliefs When Christian monotheism arrived on the arid shores of the Pacific Ocean near the small stream Virú, its believers introduced a new quality into the interreligious warfare of the Andes. Right from the start, the scale of the Christian evangelization campaigns dwarfed anything previously experienced in the Andes. Without a doubt, Christianity’s impact on local cults and religions was by far the most devastating—even

the sickening powers of christianity  71

though Andean history contained many examples of competition, and indeed battles, between cultures or cults. Archaeologists have termed the end products of these conflicts “cultural horizons.” Recurrent dramatic episodes of political, cultural, and religious coercion in the Andean region involved the Chavín (ca. 900–200 B.C.E.), the Tiwanaku (ca. 300–1100 C.E.), the Wari (ca. 500–800 C.E.), and the Inca (ca. 1400– 1532 C.E.) cultures, among others.15 Each expanded either through force or persuasion. The Chavín propagated their beliefs and cults in what is now the geographical middle of Peru by attracting neighboring peoples to worship their “staffed” god and feline-­shaped deities.16 Images of both, and beliefs about them, were adopted by other cultures in juxtaposition to the existing local huacas, pacariscas (places of mythical origin of a given kinship group), and mallquis (the mummified ancestors worshipped by a particular ayllu). The Moche (ca. 100–700 C.E.) provide a particularly telling early example of one Andean culture spreading its beliefs through the forceful conquest of its neighbors.17 The inhabitants of Huarochirí vividly related to Western writers how their gods fought against each other. Andean gods were jealous members of the world at large, a world that is today divided into Janaq Pacha, Kay Pacha, and Ukhu Pacha (Quechua for “the world above,” “this world,” and “the world below”).18 The Pariacaca, Chuqui Suso, Tutay Quiri, and Cuni Raya exhibited all their cunning and godly powers, appearing to human beings in different shapes. They chastised and rewarded their human accomplices and tried to establish a particular order in the world of humans.19 Since these intra-­Andean religious conflicts were, in essence, disputes between polytheistic religions based on the same logic—tied to ayllus, huacas, and the Andean physical environment—the outcomes were less disruptive than the Christian evangelization campaigns would be. But of course, godly battles did decide the fates of local cults. The most prominent example of interreligious warfare in the Andes is Inca imperialism.20 Inca rulers deployed various tactics to handle foreign cults, ranging from tolerance to forceful destruction. When the Incas and their soldiers fought against the Chancas, legendary for their ferocity, near Wari and Vilcashuaman, the aid of Inca gods fueled the conquest.21 The new subjects were advised to worship the Incas and the Sun; some ayllus obeyed and came to believe that the Incas and their Sun had superior power. Sometimes these new gods were not really new but simply renamed. Think, for example, of Illapa and Catequil. Both were held to be responsible for lightning and thunder:

72  The power of huacas

Illapa was Inca, whereas the Huamachuceños and other ethnic groups in the north trusted in Catequil.22 In some cases, Inca religious expansionism and universalism manifested itself in the capture and removal of local “idols,” which were reinstalled in Cuzco to make their new subjects turn their attention to the Inca capital.23 These huacas were then displayed in the Qoricancha (the main temple in Cuzco), in which the Inca rulers fashioned themselves into lords over the Tawantinsuyo—the whole world. In other instances, Inca expansionism resulted in the destruction of idols. Although various methods could be used to subtly undercut the power of local huacas,24 the Incas annihilated hostile huacas whose subjects resisted most vigorously.25 In other instances, however, Incas exhibited deference toward local huacas.26 Huayna Capac’s consultation of the god of Pachacamac is probably the most prominent example of this third strategy.27 In short, Incas set their policy toward foreign huacas by choosing from a range of alternatives that were perhaps stored in the knotted threads of quipus. Our knowledge extends only to the outcomes. We have no evidence that Incas and their soldiers entered the houses of their new subjects and searched for the little stones and stone objects that were the guarantors of fertility and health. Inca rulers would have seen no threat in these particular objects, for they also understood and believed in the powers of such huacas. Since the logic of Inca religion resembled the logic of local huaca worship (to which we will soon turn), the Inca “religious wars” led to incorporation rather than total replacement, just as had been true of earlier Andean conquerors. All of this changed when Christianity came to the Andes. Christianity was monotheistic, and conversion demanded that huaca worship cease entirely. The final wave of conquerors was driven by the belief that they were doing good by rooting out their subjects’ polytheism and idolatry. Yet, from the Andean perspective, what was good about someone who indiscriminately destroyed and burned local huacas? When Christians came to the Andes, they immediately began to swing their swords against the carved stone figures.28 Today, the mutilated stone figures of the Tiwanaku, Pucará, and Inca cultures vividly testify to these destructive acts. Granite pumas were deprived of their snouts and heads (see figure 3.1).29 Monolithic gods or bird-­shaped heads were truncated.30 With a curious attention to detail, Christians often destroyed stone huacas at their most powerful parts—the heads, teeth, and jaws—as if out of a belief that such well-­directed mutilation would deprive the demon of his most powerful tools. Less ostentatious inci-

Figure 3.1. Granite puma

deprived of its snout. Tiwanaku (300–1100 C.E.), Museo Regional Arqueológico de Tiwanaku, Bolivia.

Figure 3.2. Cross on the Inca ushnu of Tarawasi, Cuzco, Peru.

74  The power of huacas

sions of crosses could serve the same purpose, however. In Tarawasi, Limatambo, for example, Catholics carved crosses into the remains of the temple, or ushnu (a pit or three-­dimensional structure for sacrificial offerings) (see figure 3.2). Inscribing crosses into stones was often resorted to when lithic structures could not be dismantled and were instead built over. The cross, of course, held great symbolic and literal power for most sixteenth-­century Catholics. In addition to their theological implications, crosses were used in exorcisms. As is well known, Catholic priests waved their crosses in front of people and held them in their hands when they climbed the Egyptian obelisks of Rome, expelling the last demon from these pagan stone poles. In the Andes, exorcism performances were less spectacular. Yet there, the Christians had a far greater ambition: the restructuring of an entire world. What kind of impression must their actions have made on people who did not understand Christian theology? By pulling together some scattered evidence, we can fashion a preliminary picture. In the wake of Christianity’s arrival in the Andes, landscapes as well as customs were remodeled. Christians immediately made indigenous workers erect strange churches.31 These buildings bore round arches, then unknown in Andean architecture, and were often four times higher than regular houses. Sixteenth-­century Cuzco must have resembled Berlin in the 1990s, with scaffolding and construction everywhere. Soon, Christians began to ring bells, which resounded over the Andean fields, and suddenly Andean time was reordered into weeks and days.32 Andeans were forced to serve as slaves. Christians read from a book and talked to them about utterly foreign things. Christians taught Andeans to pray that “God should liberate us from our enemies through the sign of the cross.” In Quechua this became “Sancta cruzpa unanchanraycu, aucaycu cunamanta, quispichihuaycu Dios apuycu.”33 But what was meant by the statement that the God and the cross would liberate them, the Andeans, from their enemies? Were the enemies not the Christians themselves? Had they not forced the Andeans to work in mines? These were the first words of the new Indian-­Christian catechism, published in 1584, and we may suspect that the remainder of its contents were just as incomprehensible to the target audience. Similarly baffling to the Andeans was the act of pouring water over their heads, which is not how they initiated the worship of their huacas. Instead, they fasted and then offered chicha and coca leaves, among other things. Even the help offered by the Christians won few friends;

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though the mendicant orders, as in late antiquity and medieval times, sought to distribute alms to the elderly and needy, they and their new allies, the curacas, did not hesitate to enter Andean houses, identify and destroy offensive objects, and so forth; the list of radically disruptive actions could go on and on.34 For now, it should merely remind us that with its first signals, the Christian religion must have alienated any Andean observer. Even more important, Christianity was a collective threat to Andean ayllus and the Andean notion of the holy. The Christian attempts to destroy all traces of Andean religion were unlike anything in memory; they could not be explained by Andean myths and by practices relating to religious warfare and attacks on huacas. When Andean mythology told of one huaca that had lost its power to another that was more potent, the defeated entity had usually become a stone and either kept its old virtues or was attributed new powers (as discussed later in this chapter). The policy of utter destruction was a radically new form of religious warfare, outside the experience of the Andean people. Nevertheless, they were not at a total loss in the face of Christian imperialism. One response was the Taki Onkoy movement in the 1560s and onward, and others followed. The religious specialists’ parry to the threat of Christianity attempted to resurrect the destroyed huacas and develop a collective cure for the sickness that had infected their lands. It was widely held in the Andes that huacas took revenge on their ay­ llus if nobody paid proper attention to them.35 Much like Inca quipu­ camayocs, who in the myth of Huayna Capac’s death veiled the evil in symbols of butterflies, chests, and stones, Taki Onkoy priests of the 1560s linked their first experiences with Christianity with sickness and the fear of sickness. In chapter 2, we touched on only one dimension of Molina’s multilayered Taki Onkoy report. Now we have to get to the bottom of the Andean notion of sickness, features of which we already encountered in chapters 1 and 2. According to the Andean religious specialists involved in the Taki Onkoy, the promise of Christianity was fatal sickness. They believed that Spaniards sucked the blood and fat of all those with whom they traded.36 Spaniards would then trade the blood and fat among themselves to fashion curious remedies for the Spanish motherland.37 Moreover, the name Taki Onkoy itself meant something like “a certain dance of sickness.” But what, in fact, did it mean that Andean priests in the late sixteenth century associated Christianity with sickness? We are mistaken if we take this association simply as allegorical, identi-

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fying it with the recent wave of epidemics or “the encounter.” For in the Andean world, the notion of sickness had a deeper resonance. The Christian destruction of huacas, a ferocious reality throughout much of the sixteenth century that continued into the seventeenth, was in Andean terms a literal ailment inflicted on these powers and hence on their society, their ayllus, and, last but not least, their bodies.38 Andeans assumed that their bodies mirrored the wishes and emotions of their huacas, apus (sacred peaks), or other potent entities.39 Andeans lived, and still live, in lands inscribed with sacred meanings. Their lands were and are sources, promises, and threats concerning the health, fertility, and death or prosperity of any ayllu or its members.40 The sacredness of an ayllu increases with the altitude of the community (especially in the highlands from about 3,500 to 4,500 meters).41 Today’s most prominent Peruvian example is the Q’eros, an ayllu southeast of Cuzco that has preserved traditional rituals, beliefs, and forms of social organization.42 English does not translate these notions well. It barely admits that “holy” has a comparative and attaches few distinctions in meanings to environmental features.43 But such is not the case with Quechua and Aymara. Thus, when Christians attacked the holy guardians of certain ayllus—preaching against the alleged demons residing in them, swinging their swords against them, and preventing Andeans from properly worshipping the huacas—Andean religious specialists knew that the Christians were destroying the sources of their health. If nobody paid proper attention to the huacas, they would take revenge. Reminding the people of their crucial dependence on these entities, the Taki Onkoy religious specialists preached that the huacas had already fallen into neglect. They knew that this dearth would ultimately result in a horrible sickness affecting their whole society and their bodies. This threat required urgent remedy. Indeed, the Taki Onkoy was the most dramatic manifestation of Andean religious specialists’ power and the Andean notion of the holy. The religious specialists clearly held Christianity responsible for the sufferings of their huacas and themselves, so their response was directed toward Catholic priests and their own people who had begun to follow Christian prohibitions. Although religious specialists in later colonial times formulated other answers, the first prominent challenge mounted by Andean religious specialists to Christian evangelization was “You make us sick.” The solution they offered promoted the separation between “you” and “us,” suggesting that the two religions, Christianity and Andean huaca worship, should exist as individual cults (see

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chapters 2, 5, and 6). The question whether this promotion of separation is a typical response to any cross-­cultural encounter (with parallels in histories from late antiquity and colonial Mexico, for example) is not for us to decide.44 The accusation “You make us sick,” however, was apparently peculiar to the Andean world, since it was rooted in notions of both sickness and people’s relation to their huacas. But what, in fact, was so different about Christian religion from the perspective of Andean notions of the holy, and what was so incomprehensible and unacceptable about the Andean religion from the Christian point of view? A first answer to these questions can be gathered from the notion of transformation inherent in the Taki Onkoy. To understand that notion, we must, in turn, delve deeply into the assumed powers of Andean religious specialists and consider not the official Inca religion but local religious specialists, cults, and huacas.

Conceptualizing camascas and the highest echelon of human powers According to Molina’s report, the Taki Onkoy religious specialists made two different declarations. First, they voiced their conviction that Christianity brought sickness to the Andes (similar to the modern fear of the bloodsucking pishtacu, who steals human fat). Second, they advocated bringing local huacas back to life. To a Christian, this suggestion would have seemed blasphemous, as the power to resurrect was God’s alone.45 To the Andeans, however, it was almost routine. In the environs of the Huamachuceños, an Andean population that fell under the tutelage of the Augustinians, an old lady once found a piece of a destroyed huaca. When questioned by a local religious specialist as to its identity, the object replied that it was the son of Catequil. The damage to its body had not harmed its virtue and dignity. The religious specialist therefore instructed the old lady to guard this son of Catequil well.46 In this case, reempowering the huaca was rather simple: its virtues had simply survived the earlier ferocious attacks. The Taki Onkoy religious specialists gave a more complex answer to the question of how a huaca could be brought back to life.47 First, just like the Huamachuceñan religious specialist, the religious specialists reanimated the powers of destroyed huacas by their authority and by means of a specific ritual. Second, the religious specialists said that they themselves represented the huacas, though we don’t know what such “representation” entailed. The alleged incarnation of a huaca in an

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Andean religious specialist could mean many things, but two are particularly relevant here. Perhaps the religious specialist had indeed become identical with the huaca (much as we might think of possession, whether perceived by Andeans as positive or as negative, akin to the demonic possession feared by Europeans), or perhaps the religious specialist had simply acquired the powers or virtues of a particular huaca.48 Molina’s language clearly favored the first possibility: he was convinced that the indigenous preachers who introduced themselves as incarnations of desecrated huacas were “bedeviled”—possessed by the demons that they worshipped. He observed that other Indians who had been listening to the so-­called false prophet suddenly began “shaking and curling on the ground. In turn, others were throwing stones at each other like endimoniados.”49 After they had done so, they paused and approached the religious specialist with fear and told him that “huaca X has entered their body.”50 According to Molina, these new endimo­ niados received proper Andean worship, “invoking the huaca, which he or she represented, saying that the huaca was already contained in their bodies, and flying around during the night without sleep.”51 After these atrocious happenings, even greater numbers of “bedeviled” people roamed through the countryside. Moreover, Indians begged for reliquias—that is, remnants of huacas that had already been destroyed by Spaniards.52 These were needed for the second basic means of resurrecting a huaca: imploring the remaining pieces of huacas to come back to life. These new authorities poured chicha over the remains and instructed their fellow Indians, “See, here is your Amparo and he will give health to your sons and fields.”53 Apparently, only the new authorities who had previous contact with huacas could restore those that had been destroyed. Molina recounted that the village hechizeros, who prior to the Taki Onkoy had been captured and punished by Spaniards, began to worship the newly enlivened huacas, even when they consisted of nothing more than a piece of clay. Last but not least, those Indians who lived in Spanish towns took these religious specialists seriously. Taken together, these elements were shocking to the Spaniards, because they showed unmistakably that the Spanish regime was threatened by holy weapons. Even though Molina reluctantly labeled these indigenous religious specialists endimoniados, he did not hesitate to espouse the widely accepted European notion that a demon could occupy someone’s body.54 He assumed that the demons could literally enter the bodies of religious specialists, or any other “containers,” and at the same time he mentioned

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their ability to fly. To him, all this made perfect sense. As a Catholic priest, Molina was certainly familiar with demonology, the proper distinction between incubi and succubi, and the practice of exorcism. Even as he exhibited a finely tuned ear for Andean customs, he may have believed in the existence of witches. But how did Andeans themselves understand the idea that a huaca could be resurrected, and maybe even enter the body of some religious specialist? Did they think that some extrahuman force—like a demon—took possession of their bodies and spoke through them? To answer this question, we can draw on three other chroniclers who described hechizeros exhibiting superhuman powers, and perhaps even transforming into beings that could fly.55 We have already seen that Sarmiento de Gamboa showed sympathy for the necromancer Antarqui, who flew back and forth from Tumbes to Avachumbi and Ninachumbi (the Solomon Islands). But because Sarmiento reduced Antarqui’s flight to the superior wisdom of a necromancer (whatever that meant), his account cannot help us understand the Andean notion of superhuman powers.56 Sarmiento’s colleague, Polo de Ondegardo, was much more precise. To this jurist, who served from 1558 to 1561 as a corregidor in Cuzco, we owe some of our most detailed and reliable descriptions of the activities of Andean hechizeros. And some of the hechizeros included in his account indeed exhibited superior powers, including the ability to fly. Polo de Ondegardo told his readers that some hechizeros “are like witches, who take any figure they want, and go through the air over long distances in a short amount of time; and they see what happens, talk to the demon, who answers through certain stones or through other things that they worship very much.”57 He did not explain how these flights were performed, arguing only that the flights were related to divination and the hechizeros could “take any figure they wanted to.” (Perhaps with the help of unguents? He gave no indication.) In fact, Polo de Ondegardo greatly feared the powers of hechizeros since he had learned from an unnamed source that they had correctly divined the outcome of the civil wars of the 1540s in Peru—knowledge they could not have gained through natural means. Unlike Sarmiento, in characterizing the flying hechizeros Polo de Ondegardo uses—implicitly— European intellectual traditions as laid down by Martín de Castañega or Pedro Ciruelo.58 As is well known, the late sixteenth century was the heyday of witchcraft persecution, and since medieval times witches were believed to fly to their gatherings to meet with the devil.59 The

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question of how witches could fly had thus long preoccupied European scholars, who tended to support one of three answers. Witches might literally fly (perhaps with the aid of some ointment).60 Second, they might “fly” only in thought or with their soul.61 Third, the devil might manipulate their imagination to give the illusion of flight.62 Though Polo de Ondegardo described these Andean specialists from Huarochirí as being “like witches, who take any figure they want,” he implied that the explanation lay in a trick of the devil. He reported that hechi­ zeros living mostly in Manchay, Huarochirí, and Coyallu (towns near the coast) would enclose themselves in huts where they would drink until they lost their senses. The following night these drunken hechi­ zeros would answer questions about “what happens in remote parts and declare about lost and stolen items.”63 Polo de Ondegardo seems to have been undecided about whether the flying hechizero and the drunken hechizero were one and the same, but he was convinced that they both engaged in the art of divination. In sum, according to him, there were religious specialists in the Andes who flew, lost their senses, and divined, but Polo de Ondegardo was unclear as to how they accomplished these things. Much quicker to apply the label “witch” was the priest Martín de Murúa in his Historia general del Perú (ca. 1590–1615). He relied mainly on Polo de Ondegardo for his information, which he spiced up with more scandalous stories.64 In the case of the flying indigenous hechi­ zeros, Murúa turned Polo de Ondegardo’s equivocation into certainty. These hechizeros were undoubtedly witches who used unguents to fly through the air, inflicting harm on people with the demon’s help.65 Murúa alluded to the image of the witch forcefully and with great conviction. In contrast to Polo de Ondegardo, Murúa obviously believed that Andean witches really existed, and that they were no different from the ones in Europe (for how this and similar views affected colonial society, see chapters 4 and 7).

Camascas and the power of birds The four authors just cited give us four different representations of how Spaniards understood certain Andean people to exhibit superhuman powers. Molina alluded to religious specialists being possessed by huacas (which he calls demons), who then uniquely had the authority to revive destroyed huacas. Sarmiento invoked the highly developed art of the necromancer. Polo de Ondegardo drew no sure conclusions

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about the effects on hechizeros and their divinatory power of drunkenness, devilish illusions, ability to fly, and capacity to “take any form they want.” Murúa suggested that Andean hechizeros used unguents so as to fly in reality. Given this plethora of interpretations, it is difficult to decide which statement contains some truth about the actual Andean understanding of possessing or gaining access to superhuman powers, but Polo de Ondegardo gives us a clue. He reported that flying hechi­ zeros lived in the region of Huarochirí and other coastal towns. He suspected that more might live throughout the Andes. Indeed, the Quechua Huarochirí Manuscript abounds in descriptions that could be (mis)understood as people flying and perhaps even taking the shape of birds or transforming into these creatures. One famous myth introduces the reader to the so-­called camascas, who belonged to the Inca Huayna Capac’s entourage.66 One day Cuni Raya, the son or father of Pariacaca, the hero of the mythological sequence, sent these camascas to Ura Ticsi (perhaps the coast) to fetch Cuni Raya’s sister. Each of the three camascas described himself differently. One said, “I am the camasca of the condor”; another, “I am the camasca of the falcon”; and the third, “I am the camasca of the swift.” In the course of the tale, the swift camasca, who was the fastest, brought back a chest that held a fair maiden, but he violated Cuni Raya’s command not to open the chest until he was under the eyes of the Inca. Accordingly, the swift camasca had to return to the coast with the chest under his arm and carry the maiden back into the high Andes on foot. In the end Huayna Capac leaves the earth with his new wife or sister; as in the first myth recounted in this chapter, he is the hero of the tale. As Frank Salomon has suggested, this myth is a colonial-­era mythologization of the arrival of the Spaniards.67 The image of the fair maiden being brought from the shores to the Inca highlands and the symbolism behind the roles of the various bird camascas are key elements in this interpretation, which explains the curious fact that the swift outwitted the falcon and ultimately succeeded in transmitting the chest (or, if we follow Salomon’s interpretation, the news of the Spaniards’ arrival) to the Inca ruler. In various Andean mythological traditions, birds were messengers. Sometimes falcons (in Quechua, huaman) were said to have prophetic or other exceptional powers.68 But swifts are particularly appropriate since they migrate from North America to Peru—much like the Spaniards, who came from the north. More interesting for our purposes than the myth’s overall interpretation is its presentation of the three camascas as three different birds.

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During Polo de Ondegardo’s lifetime, the word camac was translated by Domingo de Santo Tomás to mean “criador o hazedor de nuevo de alguna cosa” (creator or maker of something new).69 For Polo de Ondegardo, drawing on an Aristotelian distinction between form and substance, it was possible that the camasca could adopt a new form and thus become a bird. Sarmiento described one sorcerer who “could turn himself into different shapes.”70 However, as Gerald Taylor has shown, in the Andean world camac signified “animating force”; camaquen was (and is) the source of the vital power that can be transmitted.71 The camasca was someone who possessed an animating force, or someone to whom that force was transmitted or given.72 It might well endow the camasca with powers other than those of a human, whether of a bird or of an entity such as a huaca. Polo de Ondegardo’s soncoyoc and the concept of enqa/Inca in the southern Andes of Cuzco have a similar connotation.73 It thus seems plausible that the images of flying hechizeros in the writings of Polo de Ondegardo, Sarmiento, and Murúa, as well as the role played in Molina’s account by Taki Onkoy religious specialists as reincarnations, built on the idea of camascas. In the case of the Taki Onkoy religious specialists, this increase in power even entailed the ability to restore destroyed huacas.74

The powers of Andean religious specialists: Their reach and limits In the colonial Andean world, a camasca or a soncoyoc, like the modern-­day altomisayuq from the Cuzco region or the yatiri among the Aymara, was the highest authority among religious specialists.75 He or she was deemed able to adopt nonhuman virtues or powers, most often thought to be the powers of a bird—frequently, of a falcon. Further, in colonial as well as precolonial times, a camasca’s power was believed to be acquired through direct contact with Illapa, lightning and thunder. Molina captured this connection with his notion of camasca.76 According to Molina and Polo de Ondegardo, Illapa, either through a direct lightning strike or through the resulting tremor, transmitted to the camasca who survived the life-­threatening experience a power that exceeded those of any ordinary human being.77 No colonial sources offer any evidence that these powers left the camasca before death. In the colonial Andes, the camascas’ acquisition of power enabled them to divine: to see beyond the ordinary limits of time and space.78 It also gave them the capacity to heal, and thus insight into what was

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hidden.79 Most important, it enabled them to communicate with other huacas (including apus and those whom Europeans termed “gods”) and invoke their help, especially in providing rain and securing fertility.80 Of course, camascas were not alone in performing these tasks. Other religious specialists played similar roles in healing, divining, and communicating with huacas. However, in sixteenth-­century Peru, camascas (or religious specialists called by locally distinct names but with similar attributes) were apparently seen as having the best relationships with the most potent huacas. Camascas’ powers were particularly marked in the field of divination. We must recall that the capacity to divine was crucial to all endeavors that required superhuman powers, including Andean healing practices and communication with huacas. As Polo de Ondegardo explained, certain hechizeros “did nothing else but use a divination ritual so as to divine which sacrifice was best for a particular huaca.”81 There were other means of becoming an Andean religious specialist. These included escaping from any life-­threatening situation, being instructed in dreams, being called by a huaca, receiving instruction from a teacher, being born a twin, or having physical abnormalities (such as a hunchback or extra limbs).82 But such circumstances did not invariably lead to social status or the ability to perform certain rites; then, as today, in the southern Andes, those religious specialists who were struck by lightning became the most highly esteemed religious, healing, and divining authorities. Thus, in the Andean world, contact with a huaca—and especially lightning and thunder, or Illapa—was the most important source of the key superhuman powers (whether these were also viewed as supernatural will be discussed below). We are well informed about the late-­sixteenth- and seventeenth-­century assimilation of Santiago of Compostella to Illapa.83 Not surprisingly, archival records document religious specialists telling Jesuit visitators how Santiago appeared to them in dreams or on other occasions.84 Essentially, they expressed the conviction that Santiago had endowed them with extraordinary insights. These sources illustrate the process by which the function and symbolic meanings once attached to Illapa endured in the colonial era by being attributed to the Catholic saint Santiago. In this region, the modification of Santiago endures to this day—and, as noted above, so does belief in the efficacy of lightning. In the case of the camasca or a similar high-­ranking authority, the powers of the Andean religious specialist were limited to the realm of powers within nature. More precisely, they were conceived of as being

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equal to, and at the same time circumscribed within, the powers of certain animals, such as swifts, falcons, condors, owls, and felines.85 The association of these high-­ranking religious specialists with birds was common to many ancient Andean cultures, though it differed widely among them.86 Finally, we might say that birds (and, in some cases, felines) provided “symbolic shortcuts” for expressing the kind of powers a religious specialist might adopt.87 The qualities attributed to any particular species of bird or feline varied by local cult and region, but the meaning of these symbols remained the same. Each culture suggested that particular individuals could have superhuman powers that equaled those of birds or cats. Moreover, these symbolic links reflected the particularly high esteem in which this person was held in a given ayllu or area (whether he or she was called a camasca, soncoyoc, yatiri, or some name that colonial sources did not capture).88 But even though the Andean religious specialists were considered to possess superhuman powers held by no other member of society, their powers continued to rely on those of still more potent entities: certain huacas. In Andean thought, as evidenced in both myths and chronicles, huacas had more power than these exceptional human beings. This belief can be inferred from Polo de Ondegardo’s statement that any hechi­ zero ritual had to rely on a sacrifice, as well as from the fact that during colonial times religious specialists who confessed were always depicted as performing rituals that included specific revealing items or were conducted for the benefit of a certain huaca with a specific name.89 Huacas, for their part, were viewed as having different ranks of dignity. The esteem accorded to any specific huaca varied from region to region. If we take the term huaca in its widest possible meaning, it included objects sometimes called yllas that were venerated throughout the Andes. These huacas, if one is willing to accept a wider concept of huacas according to the principle of specific embodied powers, included coca leaves, different colored powders, different colored maize, villca, San Pedro cactus, beans, and spiders, all serving to help religious specialists gain the ability of far sight.90 Other common yllas were stone figures in the shape of corncobs, llamas, and toads (today called conopas in the central and southern highlands); they aided the religious specialist in rituals to obtain fertility.91 Finally, zanco, herbs, cuys, and items of white color were huacas commonly employed to assist religious specialists in healing. During precolonial and colonial times, one prominent huaca was chicha, used for all the purposes mentioned above. Thus Andean religious specialists relied for their powers on a hier-

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archy comprising different kinds of huacas. Only with their aid could an outstanding Andean religious specialist adopt the powers of a bird, for example. But even so powerful an authority could not independently influence the weather (unlike European magicians, who were believed to have such powers). To heal and to ensure fertility, the Andean religious specialist invoked the aid of superior huacas. To briefly summarize: unlike ordinary human beings, a religious specialist in the early and, as we will see, later colonial Andean world was thought to have been chosen by a huaca, to be able (when at the peak of human power) to acquire the powers of a bird, to be able to invoke the help of huacas, and to communicate with the most potent huacas. Camascas in the Andean world were also thought to be able to retransmit their powers to their “own” huaca or another. We see evidence of this in the Taki Onkoy, whose religious specialists reendowed huacas with new life, and in one particularly telling anecdote preserved in the Huarochirí Manuscript. It relates the story of how a camasca allegedly helped huaca Maca Calla, which Paria Caca had chased away. A man (camasca) from the neighboring ayllu lamented that his own might was not sufficient to save the fleeing Maca Calla, claiming that Paria Caca’s power exceeded his own.92 In the end, however, the camasca was able to help the remaining head of Maca Calla transform itself into a falcon and thus escape. Someone—perhaps Ávila, the redactor of the manuscript—­ exclaimed, “What a mighty power this shaman had!” This myth reminds us of Calancha’s story of Charimango (told in the introduction), who had claimed to be more powerful than the Almighty and tried to prove it by making a mountain collapse. Read from either perspective, Spanish or Andean, religious specialists boasted of real powers. In Andean terms, Charimango thus fulfilled his role as guardian of the local religion and, in fact, possessed powers that surpassed those of ordinary humans. Sixteenth-­century Europeans envisaged how a human being might acquire nonhuman power quite differently, focusing on three ways. First, and most rarely, a human being could be directly endowed with supernatural powers by the omnipotent God. Jesus Christ, the apostles, and those few men and women whom the Catholic Church canonized as saints fell into this category. Second, a human could make a pact with the devil to gain access to powers that were preternatural, but not supernatural. Third, and only in the Renaissance, erudite magicians claimed that by studying occult and ancient wisdom, or mastering the whole range of available human knowledge, they could increase their

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power.93 These magi wanted to exploit the hidden riches of natural powers.94 Of these three, the explanation most often embraced by sixteenth-­century Christian scholars was the implicit or explicit pact with the devil: a human being making use of a power that belonged to a creature that somehow belonged to nature and yet was endowed with preternatural capacities. Though the extent of demonic powers was debated, there was general agreement that because demons lived in the air and possessed aerial bodies and a superior wit, demonic qualities included a keener knowledge of the occult and of manifest laws of nature. Endowed with this subtle intelligence, their possessor became able to foresee the future, see hidden things, and make use of the laws of astrology. Demonic qualities also made it possible to manipulate the weather and to inflict harm beyond what was natural. According to standard sixteenth-­century demonology, possession of such demonic powers was always temporary: a witch, sorcerer, or magus had to constantly rely on the demon’s help. Thus, if the demon should cease to exist, its client’s abilities would likewise vanish. While Christian scholars viewed magicians’ use of demonic wisdom as a deviation from God and thus a moral evil, the Renaissance magi, as is well known, strenuously defended themselves. They claimed that although they had gained enhanced powers (better insights, greater success in healing, more ability to outwit nature), they had stayed within the realm of the natural. Their abilities were not demonic but came from their access to ancient wisdom, reliance on the aid of good angels, or simply a superior command of all the wisdom and knowledge in existence.95 The similarities and differences between Andean concepts of religious specialists and standard European theological concepts of witches and magi can be briefly sketched as follows. Both cultures assumed that some nonhuman entity, whether a huaca or a demon, was needed to help a human being perform and successfully complete tasks that exceeded normal human powers. But in the Andean world, the most respected and powerful religious specialists were chosen by huacas themselves, and usually their ability to invoke the most potent huacas permanently endowed them with superhuman power. For Europeans, witches and magi were not necessarily tied to such a notion of endowment. In the Andes, different huacas continued to aid the religious specialist throughout his lifetime in his divinations, healings, and supplications for fertility.96 In the European world, “tools” of a different sort (whether the intellectual ones employed by erudite magicians or the physical objects used by common witches, such as toads, fennel stalks,

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and millet) were thought to be necessary aids. We do not know where the Andean world drew the dividing line between the powers of a huaca and the power of a human camasca, if indeed any difference was seen. In fact, with respect to the distinction between the powers of a human being (even with superhuman powers) and the powers of the holy, the opinions of European theologians disagreed with those of both European magi and Andean religious specialists. In short, they had different notions of the boundaries between the realms of humans and of the holy, or the boundaries of nature and of the holy. To understand the Andean perspective on these boundaries, we must return to the camascas and their symbolic association with birds, and then explore the deeper meaning of the bird as symbolizing a camasca’s greatest powers. It might be tempting to focus immediately on the role of various pharmaceutical substances: the association of religious specialists with birds could have its roots in imagined or factual “spiritual flights” of a mind in an altered condition—that is, in a state of ecstasy.97 We can indeed find many parallels to such ecstatic states around the globe. Siberian shamans believe that their soul leaves the body during trance, either ascending to the heavens or descending to the netherworld.98 Likewise, healers on the northern coast of Peru believe to this day that they undertake mental flights.99 And it is true that certain alkaloids provoke hallucinations of flight; famous South American hallucinogens include the San Pedro cactus (used mainly in the north), ayahuasca (used particularly in the Amazon rainforest), and villca (used especially in the southern highlands). As discussed below, seventeenth-­ century Andean healers relied on similar substances, a tradition that extended back to the inhabitants of the Atacama Desert and the cultures of the Chavín, Tiwanaku, Moche, and Inca, among others.100 Early modern Europeans and Catholic Peruvians struggled fiercely to eradicate their use.101 However, these modern-­day physiological or pharmaceutical explanations make it too easy to overlook variations within the mass of Andean cultural heritage. They can lead us far from our goal of understanding our historical subjects in their own terms and add to the difficulty of reconstructing the logic of Andean culture. As is well known, the powers of birds were highly admired in the Andean world. All Andean cultures, from the Paracas to the Inca, venerated birds, their feathers, and their abilities.102 Some Andean cultures iconographically tied avian powers to those of other animals, to anthropomorphic creatures, and to religious specialists. The Paracas, Moche, and the Tairona in modern-­day Colombia are a few examples among

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many. Here, I will briefly consider some of the symbolic fields attached to birds and their feathers with respect to religious specialists from three different ancient cultures: the Moche, the Inca, and, more extensively, the Paracas. In their artistic expressions, the Moche established an obvious symbolic link between birds and healers. In their ceramics, the Mochica depicted healers as birds, and especially as owls.103 These owl-­healers are adorned with a shawl over their heads, and bear two wings on their backs.104 It is not surprising that healers—who in the north did and still do usually practice at night105—are associated with a being that sees in the night. Owl-­gods or demons were connected with a cactus, very likely the San Pedro cactus.106 A similar association of healers and religious specialists with birds, and the association of birds with divination, can be found in modern Amazonian cultures. Until the 1970s, Amazonian healers dressed in feather ponchos while undertaking their cures.107 It is quite probable that Amazonian cultures used feathers and birds as symbols for their healers from the very earliest times.108 By at least 500 B.C.E., products made of Amazonian feathers had made their way over the Andes to the coast. Though the archaeological and mythological evidence establishes a looser link between birds and religious specialists for Inca times than for the Mochica, identification with birds undoubtedly still implied social distinction and perhaps also “farsightedness” in Inca symbolic language.109 And different birds and feathers were valued highly. Inca rulers, and probably religious specialists, possessed beautiful feather ponchos.110 Such clothing was by no means invented by the Inca, as it dated back to the Paracas (700 B.C.E.–200 C.E.), the Nazca (200 B.C.E.–600 C.E.), the Wari, and, of course, Amazonian cultures. Some feather-­woven textiles were made into ponchos, while some served as hangings in temples.111 Pillaged by Europeans, these artfully and painstakingly woven textiles were held in high esteem across the Atlantic as well. As is well known, feather ponchos from Mexico (and perhaps Peru) were much coveted by rulers and courtiers alike, from the courts of the Medici to those of the Hapsburgs in Madrid and Vienna.112 Powerful and wealthy Europeans locked them up in their cabinets of curiosities, where they became objects to impress visitors and serve as symbols of power. In Inca times, feathers worn on artful headdresses conferred social distinction. Inca Yupanqui’s followers had to wear two feathers, for example.113 Upon the death of every Inca ruler, little figures adorned with feathers were venerated in his stead.114 Polo de Ondegardo, Molina, and later Peruvians saw that the

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survivors of Inca noble lineages continued to wear ornate feather headdresses, though they had not originally invented this adornment. The Huari, for example, had beautiful feather crowns.115 Generally, during the Inca regime, feathers from macaws, flamingos, and hummingbirds were highly valued and even venerated. They were more colorful than the plain feathers of puna (highland) birds, which were often brown, white, and black; more important, each kind of feather had its own particular significance.116 In some cases, feathers were simply a mark of luxury items: difficult to get and laborious to produce. The “umbrellas” for coyllas (Inca ruler’s wives) and the canopies on the litters of the nobility were covered with weavings of feathers. When the first son of Inca Ruca was born, or when the Inca calendar announced the beginning of the new year in Hacicay Llusque (May), feathers of different birds were exuberantly scattered on the streets and in Cuzco’s Haucaypata (central plaza).117 Inca priests or local religious specialists serving huacas likely wore feather dresses on special occasions, and it is equally likely that religious specialists’ ceremonial vestments varied by region and occasion. Sometimes religious specialists donned feathered ponchos or dressed in white; in some regions they wore hairy dresses with seashells. Sometimes they wore unkus (ponchos).118 More generally, in their myths, their concepts of religious specialists, and their symbolic expressions, Andean peoples—before the arrival of the Spaniards— associated high authorities such as camascas with birds and feathers, whose high value and prestige reached back into pre-­Inca times.119 A more extended examination of the archaeological evidence bearing on the Paracas and their esteem for birds brings us back to this symbol as a point of entry into the zone where the powers of a human being (even a camasca) ended and those of a huaca began. For there was a perceived difference between the holy and the human—and a camasca was a human being, even though he (or she) came closer than any other to the powers of a huaca.

Birds as symbols of transformation Anthropological literature commonly takes birds to be symbolic pointers to “shamans,” because flight may suggest states of ecstasy. In early colonial Andean times, birds and flight also hinted at the capacity to divine.120 Yet there is even more to birds and flying beings in the Andean constellation of symbolic meanings than out-­of-­body experiences or divination, and this merits further discussion as it allows us

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Figure 3.3. Paracas iconography on a textile depicting a flying being. Paracas (700–200 B.C.E.), Museo Nacional de Arqueología, Antropología e Historia del Perú, Lima, Peru.

to reconstruct the dividing line between the perceived powers of religious specialists and huacas in early colonial times. The early coastal culture of the Paracas had an affinity for flying beings. In their pottery and weavings, they depicted the transformation of one being into another, or of one object into another, by means of birds. Their wonderful textiles portray flying beings in various stages of transformation. Usually, the woven narrative begins with a bird or flying being, then depicts the same bird in an altered condition, and finally ends with a plant that emerges from the bird (see figure 3.3). The conclusion of the narrative—the birdlike plant—clearly evokes the transformation of a seed into a plant. As Mary Frame has suggested, these constantly transforming birds of the Paracas culture thus play on the theme of fertility.121 Birds are symbolic vehicles for transformation, and ultimately a symbol for life. Other cultures, such as the Chavín, depicted a flying alligator supplying the lowland plants in their creation myth.122 The Cañaris, in Quito, traced back the existence of their ayllu to a woman who had been a bird.123 The Huarochirí told how, in Viracocha’s attempt to conquer the beautiful maiden Cuni Raya, he transformed into a bird and injected his semen into a fruit; by eating it, the woman be-

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came pregnant.124 The connection between birds and plants can be explained in part by the role that they, like other flying beings, play in pollinating flowers and thus in creating new life. Living in the midst of a desert, members of the Paracas culture felt a special urge to depict life. Their depictions were not only intended to describe and explain what went on before their eyes, but also served to invoke the essence of life. Much like many medieval European images, these had inherent—as it were, “magical”—powers. Birds, plants, and transformation were symbols hinting at what constituted life itself. Sixteenth-­century Europeans would have rejected this symbolic representation of life’s true foundation, for they viewed the “generation and corruption” of life (and not only of human beings) through an Aristotelian prism. Life was thought of in terms of different special movements. Universal cosmic motions interacted with earthly vertical ones, ultimately stirring and mixing earthly elements and qualities into a predetermined form. Scholars in the sixteenth century thought that this process had been initiated and supervised by God. The Paracas and other Andean cultures, however, used birds as symbols of life to aid their reflections on generative processes and on persons viewed as extraordinarily generative. The Mochica closely associated birds with especially capable human beings. The Incas adapted these associations and expanded them, connecting birds with people of high rank. The linkage between religious specialists and birds, before and after the conquest, seems to have been even closer among coastal cultures than among the Incas. Polo de Ondegardo located flying camascas in three places near the coast: Coayllo (today San Pedro de Coayllo, near Cañete), Huarochirí, and Manchay (today a suburb or, more accurately, a pueblo joven of Lima). He stated that they existed everywhere, but that people from other parts of the colonial Tawantinsuyo were not disclosing information about them. We can now close the circle connecting the symbol of the bird, transformation, the essence of life, and specific religious specialists. Andean people understood the increase in power of certain human beings (camascas) as their adoption of powers that belonged to birds. Birds were symbols of farsightedness as well as of life-­giving powers because of their relationship with plants, entities that intrinsically possess a power for life. As I will argue later in this chapter, the camasca had transforming qualities within the realm of already-­existing life analogous to the transformative qualities of a “living” bird in the realm of seeds, which contain the potential for another life-­state. In exceptional

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cases, the transformative power of the camasca could even extend to a huaca. But significantly, the camascas’ power of “transformation” extended only to things that already possessed the potential for life. For example, they could transform a sick body into a healthy body or acquire the gift of farsightedness (and symbolically transform themselves into a bird). A huaca, in contrast, could also operate on things that appeared lifeless—for example, transforming entities into stones and vice versa. Indeed, the transformation of some living entity into a stone, or a stone into a living entity, required a power that was superhuman and beyond a camasca’s capacities. For such operations, the camasca had to call on high-­ranking huacas.

The manifestation of the mightiest powers: The world of stones Compared to huacas, ordinary human beings and camascas were weak. Colonial Andean mythologies recorded that the powers of certain huacas vastly transcended those of any human, as they could incorporate into themselves every kind of force. The image of transformation expressed this capacity, as some huacas could transform themselves or others into any conceivable shape. When a huaca applied its transformative capacity to itself, it most often appeared as a condor or any other type of bird, a fox, a dog, a flying alligator, a human being, or the wind.125 In such a disguise, the huaca kept its keen eye on human beings, bringing itself to its human allies’ forgetful minds or establishing its lifelong ties with a specific ayllu. Sometimes, a huaca resorted to conquering a reluctant beautiful maiden by making love to her in the shape of a handsome man.126 Less excitingly perhaps, but no less stunning for an early modern observer such as Cieza de León, a huaca might appear as a huge mushroom.127 This creature was venerated in the form of the wind, a mountain, or a bird. The wind huaca—which at the same time remained a mountain huaca—would sweep with howling noises, “chuchu” or “huhu,” over the vast plains of the Andean puna, whirling around in steep valleys, lifting itself above the snowcapped mountains, and sneaking into the small hamlets of highland villagers and through the chinks in their buildings.128 Colonial Andean healers often summoned superior wind huaca forces.129 For most huacas, it was a simple task to change the realms of Kay Pacha, Ukhu Pacha, or Hanan Pacha from one to the other. The powers of some huacas were not confined by space or time, but not all were equally potent. In fact, colonial

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Andean mythologies placed them into a neat hierarchy, ranked by the efficacy of the forces attributed to them. That efficacy was measured by a huaca’s capacity to transform other beings or objects into a different kind of entity. The highest echelon was reached by huacas that could transform themselves or a third party into a stone, a gift possessed only by the most powerful. Three colonial sources give us the clearest access into the nature of the Andean belief in transformation into stones: Sarmiento de Gamboa’s History of the Incas, the myths of the Huarochirí people, and Santa Cruz Pachacuti’s narrative, which drew on the Colla myths. In all three accounts, stones stand at the beginning of the mythical or historical trajectory of their subjects.130 Despite their differences in historiographic credibility, the logic behind these stories of stone transformation is much the same. For example, according to Pachacuti, the extraordinary “human being” (either a huaca or a person, depending on one’s interpretive standpoint) Tunupa arrived at a time when the hapiñunos (evil spirits) had already been expelled. Merely by virtue of his birth, Christ had already conquered these evil spirits, but that success did not imply that Tunupa found no work when he arrived on the shores of Lake Titicaca. On the contrary, his task remained remarkably ambitious. He had to check Andean customs and make them morally right. The code he applied followed a Christian definition of sin.131 When he went through the southern Andes, he punished ayllus that did not listen to his sermons (whose content we do not know) or that continued to gather in “idolatrous” dances and drinking. The penalty was simple: he transformed the transgressors into stones. Such was the lamentable fate of the Quinamares, in Pucará, and of the inhabitants of Tiwanaku. The latter, who dwelled on the fertile axis southeast of Lake Titicaca—where temples and monumental architectural complexes symbolically united the world of the fruitful lowlands with the barren highlands, joined the female with the male principle, and resolved other similar binary oppositions—especially ignored Tunupa’s preaching.132 They shared the same fate as the neighboring ayllus. Pachacuti added that in his day, petrified human forms could still be seen in Pucará and Tiwanaku.133 Pachacuti also described how Tunupa, on his way from Cuzco to Xauxa, instantly transformed a copulating couple into a fused stone ensemble, which later became an object of veneration. Although Tunupa’s prohibition of drinking, disobedience to his sermons, dances, and fornication was Christian in nature, the punishments he dealt were certainly Andean. Stone transformations

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were not part of the ordinary Christian penal code or, more important, of European hagiography. This anecdote raises the question of whether Andean ideas about transformations into stones were necessarily associated with the notion of punishment for amoral behavior.134 To answer it, we must examine more stone stories.

The pl ay of powers: Transformations into good, evil , and finally good A particularly valuable example of stone transformation is found in the mythical battle between the huacas Huallallo Carvincho and Pariacaca as described in the Huarochirí Manuscript. This combat was tedious and dreadful. Both huacas fought eagerly for recognition from members of their own and their antagonist’s ayllu. At one point Paria Caca, the hero of the myth, used thunder to bring a mountain to near collapse. As Huallallo Carvincho fled in fear, he resorted to “turning loose a huge snake called the Amaru.”135 Paria Caca reacted quickly and petrified the slithering creature. The inventive Huallallo Carvincho then made a toucan attack Paria Caca, who immediately transformed it into a stone. This last strike seriously weakened Huallallo Carvincho and depleted his resources. In the end, the powerful Paria Caca defeated his rival, who retreated to the south. Historians still debate the myth’s meaning and try to relate it to actual human power politics.136 What is relevant for our purposes are its details. Huallallo Carvincho’s last attempt to defeat Paria Caca involved a toucan, which placed Huallallo Carvincho on par with a camasca. Moreover, the Amaru snake allegedly transformed into a stone during the huacas’ combat was presented as a malicious creature that, despite Huallallo Carvincho’s hopes, failed to put Paria Caca to flight. In other Andean tales, the Amaru also figures as a destructive and much-­feared power.137 Yet paradoxically, despite its negative associations, the Amaru in the Huarochirí Manuscript legend was tamed as it was rendered lifeless, and it ultimately served a good purpose. It was said that the petrified snake became the vein of lead in a rock; people from near and far would chop off pieces of it, as it was rumored to possess healing properties. The redactor of the legend commented: “People from Cuzco, and everyone else who knows about it, strike it with a rock and carry along the fallen chips as medicine, thinking, ‘Now I won’t catch any disease.’”138 Thus, an evil had been transformed into something positive. And the once inferior huaca retained sufficient power to ward off human sicknesses.

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Sarmiento de Gamboa’s stories of stone transformation similarly indicate that petrification could serve a positive end. According to this chronicler, the Inca rulers worshipped Huanacauri, a mountain southeast of Cuzco, which seems to have been the most prominent huaca in Inca culture.139 In Inca mythology, it was surrounded with a multitude of good meanings. In Manco Capac’s time, a rainbow appeared on the mountain, signifying that the fortunate rise of the Inca empire would begin at this very locus, which later became Cuzco. Near Huanacauri, Ayar Uchu, one of Manco Capac’s brothers, was advised to meet the huaca near the rainbow.140 He obeyed, flew thither, sat down on top of the huaca, and was immediately transformed into a stone—a fate that he deeply deplored. Ayar Uchu moaned, “O Brothers, an evil work you have wrought for me. It was for your sakes that I came where I must remain forever, apart from your company. Go! Go! Happy brethren, I announce to you that you will be great lords. I therefore pray that in recognition of the desire I have always had to please you, you will honor and venerate me in all your festivals and ceremonies, and that I shall be the first to whom you make offerings.” And so it was: Huanacauri and the petrified Ayar Uchu received honor during various annual Inca festivities.141 The transformation of Manco Capac’s brother turned the mountain Huanacauri into the mightiest huaca of the Incas. Another sibling, Ayar Auca, flew like a camasca to a site in Cuzco, where upon landing he too was immediately petrified. This third brother became the cornerstone of the Qoricancha, the central temple in which the Incas celebrated their daily, monthly, and annual rituals. It became a symbol of holy power unsurpassed by any other site during Inca times. To be sure, we cannot assume that all legends about transformations into stone—whether they involve a negative power, such as the Amaru, or a negatively perceived event, such as Ayar Uchu’s fate—follow this pattern of ultimately creating a positive force. In Pachacuti’s account, for example, it is not obvious that Tunupa’s alleged transformations change something evil (the sinful acts) into something positive. Pachacuti leaves the reader in the dark about the fate of those powers once they have been forced into the stones.142 The account of Tunupa’s transformative activities stops after the evil is punished. But, as we will see in a moment, his story drew only partly on an Andean mythologem, for Pachacuti equated Tunupa with a Christian agent who brought Andean conceptions of powers to a definite end. Various Andean and Inca myths recounted that once upon a time, the most powerful huacas transformed themselves, other huacas, or

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human beings into stones. When this petrification occurred through a huaca’s own power, the transformed object itself became a huaca. All these stones, in one way or another, became inscribed in Andean memory in a sacred geography.143 We should assume that many such stories have been lost. But the surviving myths suggest that in the process of transformation, negative powers normally were turned into positive ones,144 which were employed to provide health (Amaru) or fertility (the huacanqui ), as discussed in chapter 7. Such a transformation could also simply mean that this transformed object possessed a variety of forces. As we will see in chapter 5, which discusses the small stones that religious specialists or families possessed, stones came to contain powers stimulating fertility, prosperity, and “luck.”145 The image of enclosure can help us understand this shift from negative to positive forces: the stone came to contain the evil forces that had been characteristic of the entity’s previous being. At the same time, a second dynamic was in play. As mythical, historical, and ethnological evidence testifies, the Andean world was (and is) constructed on an all-­ pervasive duality.146 Huacas therefore likely possessed both positive and negative forces, in an undefined ratio, and containment enabled the good forces that were also enclosed within the huaca to become dominant. Cases in which transformed stones are seen as radiating negative forces might be explained by the interpreter’s standpoint. For example, Pachacuti described a furious battle between the Incas and the Chancas in which Inca Yupanqui underestimated the ferocity of some stones that turned out to be fierce warriors.147 To the eye of an Inca ally, they were harmful powers. However, a modern-­day example suggests that stones could also emit negative forces. When Nasario Turpo Condori, an altomisayuq from the Ausangate region, encountered different stone objects from this same area, he claimed that he feared their powers. Employing a ritual that invoked Apu Ausangate, he “rededicated” these stones to the huaca of higher authority: Apu Ausangate would transform the stones’ “negative” powers into positive, protective ones.148 Thus, stones as such in the Andean world had no moral value (as we might have inferred from Pachacuti’s Tunupa legend). Rather, their cultural functioning testifies to the Andeans’ belief that active forces— both positive and negative—were contained in certain objects. The true nature of each stone was defined by a huaca’s own might, or that of another huaca. Moreover, active processes of mythologization or ritual were required to awaken these forces and perhaps channel them into the desired direction—ultimately favorable for human beings. It was

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the perceived waning of these processes that had driven the religious specialists of the Taki Onkoy to urgently warn, “Our huacas die of thirst and hunger and will inflict harm on our bodies.” According to the Andean logic, in precolonial and colonial times alike the mythic memorialization of a stone’s transformation, and thus its powers, itself brought those powers to life. For an example, let us return to Huayna Capac’s death in a stone house, the starting point of this chapter, as described by a second source: Guaman Poma de Ayala, who transmitted a mythic treatment of Huayna Capac’s death. At first glance, the two stories appear to be identical, but Guaman Poma’s version captured the Andean substrate much more precisely (and perhaps more daringly). Guaman Poma spelled out Huayna Capac’s ultimate fate as follows: “[Huayna Capac] se huyó de la conversión de los hombres y se metió dentro de una piedra y allí dentro se murió sin que lo supieran” (Huayna Capac fled from the conversion of the people and put himself into a stone, and in there he died without anybody knowing it).149 Unlike Pachacuti, Guaman Poma did not mention the constructed building that became the Inca’s grave. Instead, because the Inca put himself into a stone and died within it, the stone came to represent his dead body. The previous stories of the Inca’s transformation to stone suggest that it was the Inca’s outstanding powers as a member of the royal dynasty that rendered such a transformation possible, but Guaman Poma’s contextualization provides us with new insights. He explained that the Inca hid to escape not the measles but conversion to Christianity, and he noted that nobody was instructed about the stone’s true nature. By together recounting Huayna Capac’s death, his transformation into a stone, the arrival of Christianity, and the loss of all memory of this stone, Guaman Poma conveys from an Andean perspective the end of Andean religion. First, Christianity had indirectly provoked Huayna Capac’s death (here Guaman Poma is again the devout Christian). After an Andean death—one fitting of huacas and Incas alone—he then suffered a second, more grievous and radical death: being forgotten. Guaman Poma captured the essence of Andean religious belief in just twenty-­six words; his point is that once the Inca and the stone lost their commemoration, the stone became dead and powerless among the Andeans—a metaphor for the disempowerment of Andean religion, which was brought to an end as religious forces fell into oblivion. The same picture is conveyed indirectly in Pachacuti’s depiction of Tunupa punishing negative “forces.” Despite its Christian framing and

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conclusion, Tunupa acted here like a powerful huaca banning evil into stones.150 Here, as in Guaman Poma, the banishment entailed a definite death: Pachacuti’s narrative gives us no idea about how these powers continued to “live,” or if they continued to exist at all. This silence about the stones’ fate suggests that Christianity and Tunupa had brought a definite end to Andean religious feeling and the active play of forces. But as this book will show, the arrival of Christianity resulted in a powerful disruption, but not total destruction. Guaman Poma was wrong, because the logic of the Andean religion and the power of oral transmission were strong enough to survive despite the small number of religious specialists. This evidence enables us to conclude that stones and whatever they embodied represented the Andean notion of the holy. Furthermore, as we saw in the Taki Onkoy and as we will learn soon from seventeenth-­ century visitation records, Andean religion crucially depended on active memorization and participation (see chapters 5 and 6). Without them, the interplay of forces previously active in the Andean landscape would either ultimately cease and become powerless or, of even greater concern for Andean religious specialists, especially those who lived through colonial times, there was the danger (expressed in the Taki Onkoy) that such a state of forgetfulness, when humans no longer aided their huacas, would enable negative forces to threaten and subjugate the world. There thus was need for a powerful huaca to contain the evil powers, or even to again transform them into some positive powers, as well as need for human beings, especially religious specialists, who would ally with this huaca. As colonial visitation records and even the modern example of Nasario Turpe Condori show, the religious specialist became a powerful agent to keep forces in their precarious balance and, indeed, to make the positive forces prevail over the negative ones.151 In this Andean logic, the religious specialist helped manage but did not create the contending forces.152

Stones, sacred geography, and the Andean origin of speaking boulders The knowledge that stones contained a mixture of positive and negative forces, and that stones were the symbol for the Andean notion of the holy, casts a new light on the practice in precolonial cultures (especially in the northern, central, and southern highlands) of using small, large, and oversized stones as carriers for their so-­called sacred

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Figure 3. 4. Inca stone huaca, Sayhuite, Apurímac, Peru.

images.153 Highland cultures remodeled preexisting stones or left their crude and rough nature unchanged when they incorporated them in their sacred architecture.154 A stone could express the nature of forces either through its form or through the image it bore. Often, Andean cultures gave stones the features of various animals or animal-­like beings, which either were winged or held a staff in each hand. These depictions hinted at the powers contained in the stone—which was not their representation but, as the stone transformation myths explored above suggest, their actual embodiment. An entire stone structure could also convey a powerful meaning. For example, Sacsayhuaman’s zigzag shape evoked the image of lightning and at the same time contained that heavenly force within itself.155 Thus, the shape acquired a “magical” quality or drew into itself a distant power. Although many myths about stones and mountains have been lost, colonial records testify that certain stones and mountains stood out in regional or pan-­Andean memory.156 A satisfactory explanation for why particular stones and mountains became the bearers of the Andean notion of the holy remains elusive. Of course, as the most durable material found in the high-­elevation Andean environment, stones were the most obvious choice to support religious and artistic expression, and mountains have always served as strategic landmarks (see figure 3.4).157 But we must try to understand stones and their perceived powers

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through the prism of Andean logic. To an ordinary human being, stones appear to be dead: unlike plants, animals, the wind, or persons, they lack movement or growth and thus show no sign of vital forces. Yet Andeans believed in the pervasive vitality of all observable entities. When their mythology retrospectively ascribed to stones “life” (and therefore a vital force), the stones became part of the “living” cosmos of active forces. In fact, as modern ethnology has revealed, small stones in possession of a household or an ayllu were believed to contain a camaquen or enqa (vital spirit). These stones were either of an indefinite shape or carved to resemble a llama, a corncob, a coca leaf, or, in modern times, a house or courtyard. Colonial records note the use by religious specialists of stones both shaped and left uncarved (see chapter 6). It is believed today that the stone containing the desired superhuman power is revealed to an altomisayuq—by lightning, for example—and in his or her hands it transforms itself into an instrument generating positive powers to undertake healing or divination. Though colonial sources seem to have been uninterested in exploring the meaning of these small stones, whether carved or uncarved, ethnological evidence shows that the shape of the stone hinted at the power it contained. Thus, a llama-­shaped stone was (and is still) believed to contain generating or life-­giving powers for llamas, and performing a ritual in honor of this stone should help to elicit these forces.158 A crucial point to keep in mind in analyzing the colonial discourse is that the llama-­shaped stone’s power was explained not by reference to analogy (in which case a stone of particular shape would represent a spiritual and perhaps even supernatural entity) but to a perceived materialization: that is, there was a causal relationship between the life spirit of the llamas (as a concept or species) and the life-­generating force inherent in a specific carved object.159 The power that was attributed to the carvers of these stones must also have been specific. Unfortunately, colonial sources are mute about the carvers’ identities and skills. An hechizero is never referred to as a craftsman but instead is said to have received his stones from a huaca.160 Today’s records add that the right and ability to carve stone was reserved to members of the Kallawaya in the Apolobamba, in modern Bolivia.161 Their talismans alone possess the desired powers. Given this Andean perspective, certain peculiarities of the Andean-­ Christian dialogue can be understood and anticipated. As we have seen, Peruvian Christians developed a great distrust for Andean stones and destroyed carved figures. They did so for two reasons: first, because

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most of them believed that demons were enclosed in the stones; and second, because they took their Andean informants at their word. The latter also believed that these objects contained certain powers. Thus structurally, as the next chapter will show in detail, the Christian belief in demonic incorporations and the Andean belief in vital powers (both beneficent and maleficent) led both groups to pay attention to stones. But whereas Andeans conceived of the stones within a language of embodied powers within nature, Europeans used a language of preternatural or supernatural powers.162 Christians’ obsessive attention to stones was not simply imported from Europe, whether as a reflection of antipagan memories preserved in church histories or an echo of the Renaissance theological debates about Praxiteles’ Athena, the Roman Jupiter, Egyptian obelisks, or fossils. Rather, it arose from an encounter with an Andean substrate, which resulted in Peruvian Christians passionately debating the speaking stones of the Andes. It should by now be evident as well why consulting stones seemed plausible to Andeans: if stones were believed to have once contained a living entity (be it a mythical Inca or a snake), then of course these stones could be consulted. Thus, from an Andean point of view, there is nothing surprising in testimonies that Manco Capac spoke with or through stones, as did many religious specialists in precolonial and colonial times.163

The Andean concept of sacred and human powers The Andean world was one of imagined powers, whose most prominent representatives were huacas—and the mightiest huaca was able to transform a living entity into a stone.164 Using our own terminology, we might say that certain huacas were thought to be capable of taking away life and endowing it with a new life force, rededicating it. A huaca could also transform a living entity into a seemingly dead object and reanimate it. Andean logic requires the addition of the word “seemingly,” for the first transformation did not mean that this being had lost effective use of its power. Indeed, much of our vocabulary would be misleading, for the object continued to “live” and continued to radiate forces—positive or negative—in a new shape and manner. The religious specialist would enter this world of huaca forces, to which he gained access either through direct personal contact with a huaca’s powers or through the possession of items containing those powers, which endowed him with a superior wisdom or granted him superhuman abilities. In return, he kept the huaca’s memory alive. This give and take ac-

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cords with the notion of ayni (reciprocity), which is essential in Andean society, cosmology, and rituals.165 Huacas, like religious specialists, were bound to obey this principle. In the case of a completed transformation into stone, the more potent huaca gave life (by bestowing it with a new meaning) at the same time it took away life. Therefore, transformation into a stone was not a negative event, as it would appear to Western eyes. As we can infer from Andean ancestor worship, death was alleviated by the belief that the dead also came to contain positive powers and granted prosperity to their ayllu. If the worship of the dead ancestors or other Andean huacas ceased, religious specialists argued that ayllus would fall into disgrace and be punished with hardships such as illness. These same assumptions underlie Guaman Poma’s account of Huayna Capac’s transformation into stone. The stone was not remembered, and thus became dead and powerless. Once huacas were no longer worshipped, they could not ward off evil forces. Conversely, remembrance granted huacas vital forces and renewed their ability to keep malignant things at bay. The uneasy balance between good and evil forces, always likely to shift, thus depended on the huacas and on the cultivation of the memory of their actions: a mythology that explained when and how evil powers were banned, or why they still existed. We must also position the religious specialists, including the camas­ cas, within this system. They do not appear as mighty as a huaca. No Andean myth depicts a religious specialist able to transform any being into a stone, and a camasca never reanimated an object or a dead body. Moreover, only rarely was a camasca able to assist a huaca.166 Both of these observations are meaningful. The first suggests (to use our terminology) that the camasca was not (or is not) capable of taking away life and simultaneously rededicating it and invigorating it with new life. (On whether the powers brought out by the Andean religious specialists were primarily evil or positive, see chapter 7.) This actually fits well with the meaning of the religious specialist’s main symbol, the bird. A bird “transforms” one living entity into a new one by taking part in the life cycle of plants, ultimately enabling a seed to transform into another plant. Likewise, the highest among the religious specialists could use his own (huaca-­provided) powers—those that were contained in their stones, and those that they could invoke—to bring positive forces to the fore. In healing, a powerful religious specialist was believed to restore a sick body to health primarily with the help of an allied huaca, and to fight off the evil powers that other huacas exerted on the patient

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(see chapter 6).167 Thus, the bird as symbol for the camasca’s powers goes beyond the notion of farsightedness. It also delimits the objects to which the religious specialists could apply their own and their huaca’s power: those in the realm of the living and not the realm of the seemingly dead, which fell under the purview of only the mightiest huacas. The camasca’s power ended with the living world. The huacas, in contrast, could transcend this realm and apply their powers at will in all spheres: they could animate, destroy, animate, rededicate. The most potent among them were the lords of all possible forces. But though the camasca was a humble dependent, he was a key figure in the world of struggling forces. Without him, there was no commemoration of myth; without remembrance, even the huacas were dead. Forgotten, the petrified Inca Huayna Capac truly symbolized the end of a world.

Chapter Four

Talking to Demons: The Intensified Persecution of Andean Religious Specialists (ca. 1609–1700)

Jesuits and others see demons talk Throughout his life, the Jesuit Ludovico Bertonio (1557–1625) genuinely cared about exchanging ideas with the native people of the southern Andes. He edited an Aymara dictionary in Julí in 1612 and, in the same year, added the Libro de la vida y milagros de nuestro Señor Iesu Christo en dos lenguas, aymara y romance to his collection of writings.1 Both books were intended to aid communication between his brethren and the Aymara Indians. The latter contained vivid accounts of Christ’s life and struggles, especially tailored to the indigenous experience. One of the parables that he accommodated to the “capacity of the Indians” treated Christ’s silencing of Apollo, whom he named the greatest oracle of the ancient world: “In those days an idol by the name of Apollo was famed as a great talker and deceiver of the human race. Being the demon’s mouth, he fell mute and no longer spoke because Christ, our Savior, was born. On one last occasion, Apollo was enabled to speak. When Augustus offered a sacrifice, Apollo confessed that he was no longer able to speak because this child who was in fact a god had told him, ‘Be quiet and return to hell.’”2 Bertonio was convinced that Apollo had obeyed and voluntarily returned to the underworld. The Jesuit was only one of the many Europeans who believed that Christianity’s arrival had caused—or, at least, should cause—a similar silencing of idols and their demons in Peru.3 A Christian land was one in which stones, mountains, lakes, and caves were silent witnesses to God’s wisdom.4 Yet to the chagrin of the Jesuits and many others during the seventeenth century, Peruvian realities proved Christianity’s narrative of their successes over ancient idolatry wrong. Despite the expansion of Christianity into the hinterlands of Lima, Cuzco, Quito, and

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Charcas, Peru’s demons did not cease to communicate with religious specialists, nor the latter with them. The plains and valleys of Peru resounded with the demons’ whisperings, vile sayings, and vicious talk. Demons continued to pull at the fragile bond between recently baptized hechizeros and their Christian faith.5 And they probed the steadfastness of many missionaries.6 In the light of this widely shared belief, priests and friars—and especially Jesuits and Augustinians—ventured into the countryside in order to find and destroy speaking idols. This search also motivated the study of many remote and uncommon indigenous languages.7 Priests not affiliated with any order, such as Bartolomé Álvarez (1540–?), also searched for these talking idols. We know little about Álvarez beyond that he lived in the second half of the sixteenth century in the diocese of Charcas and was daily busy baptizing Aymara and Quechua Indians in Sabaya, Aullagas, and Potosí.8 He was apparently successful at converting them to the Christian faith. One recorded episode gives us some insight into his daily routine. When he interviewed the young son of a deceased hechizero, he asked him what the voice of the demon sounded like. How did the devil talk to your father? The little boy, surprised by such a question, said the demon talked in the voice of a little child, and that answer marked the end of the dialogue.9 We do not know if Álvarez was satisfied with this answer. Although in this case he did not ask the source of the demonic voice, Álvarez and the Catholic clergy came to particularly suspect stones. The Augustinians were convinced that stones responded to hechizeros.10 José de Acosta summed up this issue: “Often idols show some signs of intelligence and of voice, and sometimes they even announce admonitions and decrees. When something similar happens, and this might happen, all the above mentioned arguments [about idolatry] require more decisiveness and we have to show to these barbarous people that all these things are tricks performed by the devil.”11 As we will see below, suspicion of continued communication between religious specialists and demons acquired a new quality during the seventeenth century, especially in the archdiocese of Lima; a new European demonology that varied the Catholic fear of demons conversing with indigenous religious specialists through stones lay at the heart of a series of ecclesiastical persecutions of indigenous hechizeros. In that enterprise, the key movers were Jesuits, their theological convictions, and their interest in the European discourse on magic. This chapter will therefore focus on this predominantly Jesuit seventeenth-­

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century discourse, its ideological breeding grounds, and its first effects. Chapter 5 will consider the religious specialists’ reactions to these discourses against the backdrop of their Andean culture.12 Despite the Catholic clergy’s keen attention to conversations between demons and hechizeros, clerical sixteenth- and seventeenth-­ century investigations into religious specialists’ otherworldly communications barely scratched the surface. Not a single dialogue between a demon and his Andean human counterpart has been bequeathed to the historian.13 Usually, Europeans simply stated that they thought stones or other objects spoke to hechizeros, and hechizeros to them. They did not mention the purpose of the alleged conversation. As late as 1660, María Guanico was interrogated about whether her idol spoke to her. She answered no, that the huaca responded only indirectly, by fulfilling her demands.14 Although Catholic attention to the actual content of diabolical communications sometimes wavered, the odd European curiosity about the pitch of a demon’s voice remained constant. Álvarez, whom we met interrogating an hechizero’s son about the voice of his father’s demonic interlocutor, was not alone in this interest. Another who shared it was Francisco de Ávila, whose comments cited Hernando Paucar, a famous religious specialist (discussed below): “sometimes Chaupiñamocc . . . spoke whisperingly, other times harshly.”15 In both cases, the demon’s voice and tone apparently drew more interest than its messages. These Catholics appear to have been using tone to assure themselves that the beings who spoke with Indians were not angels. Angels could speak through trees in a delicate manner, but their messages were about God’s hidden intentions. In most encounters between Catholics and religious specialists, however unintelligible the communication between a South American native and a religious object was, it was proof enough that this person was an hechizero who relied on demonic powers (see figure 4.1).16 Interpreting Andean speaking stones as talking demons became standard in Peru for much of the late sixteenth and seventeenth centuries. Nevertheless, judging by the frequency with which the identification was repeated, most writers in colonial Peru obviously felt the need to corroborate this hermeneutic. They either wanted to correct their “deluded indigenous children” or simply wanted to leave the reader in no doubt as to how to understand the given information. That demons talked through stones to hechizeros was the only reliable proof of the hechizeros’ identities as devil worshippers (“ministros del diablo,” in the formulation of the Third Lima Council), who could then be punished.

Figure 4.1. “Priests, Valla Viza, Laica, Umu, Hichezero.” From Felipe Guaman

Poma de Ayala, Nueva corónica (1615), 277. Courtesy of the Royal Library, Copenhagen, Denmark.

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The combination of Jesuit fascination with hechizeros’ communications and Jesuit reluctance to go into the details of these same communications exemplifies the thorough ambivalence of the Society of Jesus’ attitude toward the native world. This ambivalence was shared by the Augustinians. The members of both orders were torn between curiosity and fear, between concepts of assimilation and utter alienation, between their own interest in natural magic and their zeal to extirpate idolatries. Why, for example, did a Jesuit in 1576 deliver a stone to Gregory XIII (pope, 1572–85) as proof of Peruvian idolatry?17 Was the stone merely the token symbol of a foreign religion? Or did the Jesuit himself think that this object was somehow exceptional? Did the pope turn the stone over in his hand or hold it to his ear? In this instance, as in so many others, the sources do not allow us to investigate Catholic ambivalence in more depth. In seventeenth-­century Spanish and Creole discourse, it was water on European mills when Santacruz and informants from the Huarochirí region reported that a colonial religious specialist heard huacas enter his or her house howling “huhu” or “chuchu.” To a Spaniard, these meaningless sounds merely provided further evidence of the nonsensical nature of typical demons’ talk.18 Yet for the Andean religious specialist, the onomatopoetic “huhu” and “chuchu” were the happy signs of the wind huaca’s arrival, containing the promise of quick healing of a sick patient or the finding of a lost item.19 In seventeenth-­century Peru, the standard Jesuit and Augustinian rhetoric presented religious specialists as talking to demons in the form of idols—namely, huacas, fire, an elm tree, stones, mummies of ancestors (mallquis), thunder (Illapa), or the Sun.20 Before reviewing how demonological discourse intensified over the seventeenth century and what its consequences were for native religious specialists, it is worth investigating how seventeenth-­century Andean religious specialists’ communications with higher entities differed from those of their Inca predecessors. What did communication between huacas and semihuman or human beings look like before, and after, the Spanish conquest?

Talking . . . but how? Spanish representations of Inca and Andean wisdom Intensely alert as always, early chroniclers interrogated quipuca­ mayocs to find out how Incas communicated with the alleged preternatural forces. These inquiries brought forth a plethora of evidence.

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Notably, chroniclers recorded in great detail how the Incas succeeded in foreseeing their regime’s demise. Spaniards were impressed by these predictions because history had proven them correct. The Inca—and indeed the Andean and colonial Andean—world contained many specialists and many ways to read a huaca’s will. In Inca times, mirrors were probably used for both personal use and astronomical observations.21 Mirrors, of course, were objects dear to learned magi in Europe and popular throughout the baroque world. They were employed by Peruvian Catholic artists in baroque altars to shed God’s light into the souls of believers. In the early decades of the conquest, Spaniards marveled at the grandeur of the Inca Empire. Giovanni di Botero believed that silver and the perfect road system lay at the heart of Inca “grandezza.”22 To a later generation, the ninth Inca, Pachacuti Yupanqui, stood out as the empire’s architect. According to most quipucamayocs and chroniclers, this Inca was exceptionally gifted. He succeeded in transforming a local regime into an empire that rivaled its ancient Roman counterpart in greatness.23 One question in particular intrigued the chroniclers: How did Inca Pachacuti Yupanqui manage to subdue the Chancas, a confederation of people living near Cuzco? Their defeat was widely held to be the turning point in Inca history.24 Sarmiento de Gamboa and Cristóbal de Molina offered the same answer to the riddle of Pachacuti’s success: a speaking mirror, which had come into his possession at Susurpuquio, a lake south of Cuzco. Here, Pachacuti Yupanqui Inca was said to have had a vision. According to Molina, one day the ruler was resting on the lake’s banks, baffled as to how to proceed in his military campaign against the Chanca, whom he had thus far been unable to conquer.25 In this idyllic place, far from the front line where his soldiers were fighting with clubs and bows against stubborn resistance, a mirror fell into the pond. In this mirror, Pachacuti Yupanqui saw the figure of an indio, but this Indian was not a normal human being. The figure had serpents as arms, the head of a cougar, three rays emanating from its head, and pierced ears. Then the image began to speak to the Inca. It said, “I am the Sun, your father, and I know that you will subject many nations and thus revere me.” Having spoken, the strange animal-­like figure vanished. Only the mirror remained. In Molina’s words, “And thus vanished the apparition and only the crystal mirror remained in the pond. The Inca took it and guarded it. It is said that the Inca ever since saw whatever he wanted to know.”26 In his 1572 history of the Inca empire, Sarmiento recounted the same story as Molina, with a slight

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but significant variation.27 As in Molina’s account, the Inca Pachacuti Yupanqui, again in the midst of battle against the Chanca, had a vision. A person appeared “in the air like the Sun consoling him [the Inca] and animating him for the battle. This being held up to him a mirror in which the provinces he would subdue were shown, and told him that he would be greater than any of his ancestors. . . . He [Pachacuti] took the mirror, which he carried with him ever afterwards, in peace or war.” As Sarmiento added, “the vision gave spirit to Inca Yupanqui.”28 Both Molina and Sarmiento depicted the Inca as consulting a mirror, but while Molina’s mirror resembles an elaborate piece from the Wari culture that depicts a ferocious animal,29 Sarmiento’s account conforms more closely to European expectations: his supernatural being is more purely human in form, and the mirror itself resembles the instrument of a European magus. In sixteenth- and seventeenth-­century European discourse about magic, it was anything but abnormal to speak to demons or angels via a mirror.30 In the colonial world, Sarmiento himself was accused of having placed a mirror underneath the earth, which would enable his client to predict when luck or misfortune would cross his path.31 But unlike in Mexico, Peruvian Inquisition records provide no evidence of a rigorous employment of mirrors through the hands of European-­type learned magi in the viceroyalty.32 In general, the impact of European erudite magi on indigenous religious specialists was marginal.33 In contrast, Philip II, to whom Sarmiento dedicated his work, is known to have been a great admirer of mirrors and stars.34 We do not know whether the astrologer and chronicler Sarmiento hoped that this anecdote of Pachacuti Yupanqui’s success, owed to consulting a mirror, would help convince Viceroy Toledo and Philip II that they should avail themselves of Sarmiento’s own skills with that technique.35 But this story undoubtedly corresponded well with the Spaniards’ own perception of the Inca regime as ruled by tyrannical kings and their belief that the Incas’ success indirectly rested on consultation of demons. Mirrors, but not of crystal, were also part of the Andean world. The Moche and the Wari peoples treasured beautiful mirrors. Their social elite kept them as valued objects, and a few Moche and Wari mirrors still exist today.36 Unfortunately, the elaborate pieces themselves do not reveal how they were actually used. And though the use of mirrors was widespread among the Inca, Wari, and Moche elite, as well as among erudite European magicians in the New World, according to colonial visitation records, they were not standard equipment for

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colonial-­era Andean religious specialists. In their offerings to huacas and in the ceremonies that Spaniards interpreted as divination rituals, religious specialists used beans, spiders, and coca leaves, but they did not use mirrors (see chapter 6). And as we will see, although documents from the mid-­seventeenth century onward show traces of exchange of ritual practices between folk practitioners of different cultures in the colonial period, mirrors apparently did not cross the cultural border. No seventeenth-­century documentation refers to mirrors as being used by local Andean religious specialists. Today some Chiclayo and southern Peruvian curanderos include mirrors in their mesas, but as the documentation of the visitation protocols from late-­ eighteenth-­century Trujillo shows, even here, where adaptations to foreign practices were far greater than in the highlands, this is likely to be a twentieth-­century innovation.37 During colonial times, mirrors—once the prerogative of the Inca elite who symbolically bore the attributes of Mama Huaco or Ocllo—belonged to a distant world.38 Yet despite playing no part in native religious practices, mirrors came to be present in Christian spaces. In even the tiniest parishes, mirrors adorned the altars, tabernacles, and statues of the saints.39 In Spanish and Creole narratives, the mirror became a symbol for the immaculate conception of Mary, or even a metaphor for the Holy Trinity.40 These features were never adopted by seventeenth-­century Andean religious specialists for their rituals.

From private confession to public trial One might call the Jesuit preoccupation with communication between hechizeros and demons monotonous were it not for the increasing suffering it began to inflict on hechizeros. Compared to their experiences in the period beginning in 1609, the life of religious specialists from 1583 until that point seems to have been relatively secure. During the late sixteenth century, few documents testify to the active persecution of hechizeros. The church and its clergy appear to have simply disregarded the urgent warning of Lima’s Third Council (1582–83) on that matter. Even though the Third Council of Lima stigmatized hechizeros in public as “worshippers of the devil,” for quite a while this rhetoric was not accompanied by enforcement or widespread public support.41 Gradually this lax attitude changed, especially in the Archdiocese of Lima, with considerable shifts taking place in the years 1609, 1621, and 1649 (see map 4.1)—a story that has already been told. But in the effort

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Map 4.1. Places where Andean religious specialists were persecuted during colonial

times.

to understand the many shifts in the role of Andean religious specialists, which depended on both a changing theoretical discourse as well as on cross-­cultural interactions, we need to recapitulate these shifting European perceptions, this time through the lens of the different facets within the European discourse on magic. The changes in policy that took place after 1609 were due most di-

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rectly to the work of four ambitious priests who wanted to inscribe themselves into history and, ultimately, into heaven: Francisco de Ávila (ca. 1573–1647), José de Arriaga (1563–1622), Fernando de Avendaño (1577– 1655), and Pedro de Villagómez (d. 1671). With the exception of Arriaga and Villagómez, who didn’t know each other, the men were all acquainted. This quartet was convinced that the persecution of hechizería required public support, that hechizería was an issue of the highest public priority, and that more priests were indispensable for the purpose of eradicating idolatries. All four of them made themselves publicly heard in sermons and published treatises: Ávila’s ­Tratado de los evangelios (1646–48, with a reflection on activities from the year 1609), Avendaño’s Sermones de los misterios de nuestra santa fe católica (1649), Arriaga’s La extirpación de la idolatría en el Perú (1621), and Villagómez’s Exorta­ ciones e instrucción acerca de las i­ dolatrías (1649). Ávila was a secular priest and received his own parish while in his mid-­twenties; Avendaño, a secular priest, served as professor of theology for three years before becoming rector of the University of San Marcos; Arriaga, a member of the Jesuit order, became rector of the Colegio de San Martín, the Jesuit seminary in Lima, at the age of twenty-­four; and Villagómez, a secular priest, ascended Lima’s archiepiscopal throne at age fifty-­one. All four were figures of considerable public repute, and their general outlook on the indigenous world was similar. They all suspected that behind the hechizeros’ actions were the manipulations of demons. Of course, their demonology varied. To simplify, the stages of their demonology in the discourse in the archdiocese of Lima can be identified as follows: from a demonology with special emphasis on idolatry, to a demonology with an emphasis of the ­equation of the magus with the heretic, and, at last, to a demonology with an emphasis of the equation of the magus/hechizero with the heretic/witch. Let us consider these three stages of development. On December 20, 1609, Ávila publicly staged an auto-­da-­fé in the Plaza Mayor of Lima, the heart of Spanish power, that prominently staged the new demonology that was to dominate seventeenth-­century discourse on Andean religious specialists in the archdiocese of Lima. For the first time, the Spanish and Creole public was able to witness the punishment of an indigenous hechizero, a man named Hernando Paucar.42 Ávila must have felt great satisfaction that day. According to the reports of Ávila and Arriaga, Paucar was chained to a pole and forced to look on as Ávila’s Jesuit cohorts piled up wood for a bonfire.

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Ávila preached a sermon against demon worship in eloquent Quechua. Arriaga, in retrospect, called Paucar a “great master of idolatry, who spoke to the Devil.”43 As we can infer from the gripping language of his Tratado de los evangelios (1646–48), Ávila was truly a great rhetorician. Afterward, the Jesuits threw onto the pyre hundreds of idols that they had collected with Ávila on their mission to the Huarochirí district. Under the auspices of the initially skeptical viceroy Marqués de Montesclaros, who looked on the pitiful spectacle of Hernando Paucar from a window in his palace, the fire was lit. Paucar had once been the most highly esteemed religious authority in the Huarochirí area. Many Indians had consulted him regarding their future, luck, marriage, health, and other matters, both prosaic and extraordinary. In those days, Paucar had served the huaca Chaupiñamocc as its main priest, probably attired in beautifully woven textiles and adorned with a multicolored feathered headdress. In Lima, however, the Spaniards chained him to a pole and punished him with two hundred lashes. Humiliation needed no translator. Paucar also received a stigmatizing haircut and was sentenced to serve in the Jesuit colegio of Santiago de Chile, thousands of miles away from his homeland. Was Paucar ever sent to Chile? To what use could the Chilean Jesuits put him? The record is silent. But we do know that the official staging of the auto-­da-­fé of Paucar at the heart of Spanish Peru’s political geography marked a radical shift in colonial policy toward indigenous priests. Never before in the history of either Lima or Cuzco had Spanish officials made an indigenous hechi­ zero suffer through auto-­da-­fé. Up until this day in 1609, the Inquisition had reserved autos-­da-­fé for Spanish, mestizo, and Afro-­Peruvian hechizeros and, especially, heretics, because Philip II had exempted indigenous people from inquisitorial oversight and prosecution.44 But as we already have seen, Viceroy Toledo had worked towards that aim. In trying to explain this specific event, I argue that Ávila’s motivation for the 1609 auto-­da-­fé (and not simply its description in 1646–68) was influenced by a recent import from European demonology, especially from Martín Delrío’s book Disquisitionum magicarum libri sex.45 Almost every order possessed at least one copy of it.46 The former Jesuit library of Cuzco owned the 1599–1600 edition of the Disquisitionum magicarum libri sex, the first among several.47 It bore the official seal of the Jesuits. Eymerich’s Directorium was equally popular.48 While Ávila was imprisoned in Lima in 1607, he or the Jesuits accompanying him could have gotten hold of the Disquisitionum magicarum libri sex, the Directorium, or both.49 It is known that Ávila acquired both the Direc­

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torium and the Disquisitionum magicarum libri sex at some juncture,50 but his copy of the latter bears no publication date, and we do not know when he bought it. Ávila was an avid book collector throughout his life, and he always wanted to enter the Jesuit order. His love for the Jesuits and his loyalty to them remained with him throughout his life— even though the order had denied him entry. Ávila and the Jesuits who accompanied him to Huarochirí probably already knew this book by the time of their visitation. Like many others, Paucar was accused of having been in constant communication with the devil. The hechizero had set up an unidentified small idol to enable the demon to speak, and the demon had not disappointed him. Ávila was highly agitated by Paucar’s fame in Huarochirí. In his confession, Paucar stated that “when I enter a village, the [Indians] erect arches for me and there is dancing. Women play the drums. They provide housing and give me food[;] . . . moreover, they erect a little hut made out of branches and they close it off with mantas [textiles] and allow me to enter it day and night, all by myself. People come to this place to consult with me and I answer and sacrifice guinea pigs, spill chicha, and perform other ceremonies, depending on what is at stake.”51 Was Paucar treated like an important Christian religious figure—a visitator, or even a bishop—by his own people? When Cuzco’s bishop and the Corpus Christi procession stepped off the main plaza, they stepped on flowers that pious Indians and Creoles had spread before their feet.52 Likewise, when a new viceroy entered Lima, or when the San Marcos University celebrated the Virgin Mary’s ascension to heaven, elaborate arches were erected.53 Paucar’s arrival in a village was no less elaborately celebrated. Paucar’s close relationship with a demon, together with his authority within his community, made him particularly threatening to Ávila, and thus particularly worthy of public censorship. It did not matter that Paucar had (voluntarily or involuntarily) asked Ávila to convert him to Christianity. It did not matter that Ávila himself could look back on considerable success in converting the Indians of the region.54 According to him, the Indians wanted to deliver their idols and convert to Christianity. Ávila regretted that “all these idols were but little stones and ridiculous things, none was of silver or gold.” He added dismissively, “One Indian happened to possess a silk button, made of black silk, which was the idol of his household (ídolo penate). He had found it somewhere in Lima in the trash, brought it to his village, and showed it to the teacher of idolatry, who said that it was a great thing (gran cossa) and that he should use it as his household

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God (dios penate).”55 One wonders: if Andean idolatry was so ridiculous, if all the Indians were already converted, why then was Paucar’s auto-­ da-­fé necessary? This demonstration likely was aimed not at indigenous people but at Spaniards and Creoles. Either way, an auto-­da-­fé of this size surely indicates that hechizeros or dogmatizers seriously challenged Catholic authority. Arriaga commented that the event was effective. It was only in its aftermath that Viceroy Montesclaros became “totally convinced that idolatry was as deeply rooted among the Indians as it was concealed.”56 In 1610 Ávila was appointed the first official visitator of the archdiocese of Lima, beginning a major campaign to extirpate idolatries that was to last until 1622.57 During those years, an estimated 1,618 hechizeros, or dogmatizers, were scrutinized. Some of them were imprisoned in Lima’s Santa Cruz prison, designed for hechizeros.58 In his retrospective description of 1646, composed after a career in Peru’s ecclesiastical hierarchy and almost thirty-­seven years after the auto-­da-­fé, Ávila was careful to present Paucar’s history in terms consistent with the current orthodoxy. By 1609, and by 1646 at the latest, Ávila understood and explained Paucar as a Peruvian Faust. Ávila stressed Paucar’s active role in the alleged process of communication, saying that “on his [Paucar’s] command, the idol spoke.” Ávila claimed to have learned this from Paucar himself, who supposedly confessed, “I made him [the demon] speak by putting up an idol that represented him.”59 No proof can be given for the authenticity of this purported confession. It is meaningful, however, that Ávila represented Paucar as an omnipotent magus, capable of guiding the demon into the desired object. Thus, according to Ávila, it is the hechizero who summons the demon, and not the demon that ensnares the sorcerer. Martín Delrío’s Disquisitionum magicarum libri sex (with twenty-­ four editions published in Europe between 1599 and 1755), a great treasure chest of stories related to European magic, pejoratively referred to a magician from Antioch who used his “magical powers” to make an idol of Jupiter speak, thereby increasing hatred and persecution of the Christians.60 Delrío condemned the speech of the talkative Dodonian doves, the Dodonian oak tree, the ship of Argus, Achilles’ horse, the Brahmanian elm trees, and the river Causus, which said “hello” to Pythagoras, as not grounded in the workings of nature.61 He considered these marvels to be either lies or the result of dealings between

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a demon and his magus. Delrío described demonic magicians as those who “use unknown, false, unauthentic, absurd and senseless words, or misuse or distort holy words, by inserting them into inappropriate contexts, or use them for purposes they had not been assigned for, or when they use unknown names of good angels or make use of angels’ names which are unknown in the Catholic tradition.”62 Ávila’s characterization of Paucar as a magus was consistent with the prevailing Jesuit orthodoxy concerning European sorcerers. In Ávila’s language, Paucar’s idol represented a preternatural creature. In 1609 Ávila’s motives for organizing the auto-­da-­fé of Paucar had been exceptional. He was the first to openly argue that hechizeros were like “demonic magicians,” who made demons come and go. He was also the first to treat hechizeros almost like heretics—despite a different treatment mandated through civil law. While earlier missionaries and clergy had followed Acosta in emphasizing that these “ministros del diablo” were victims of the devil’s deceit, Ávila began to use a symbolic language that had hitherto been reserved for heretics. Until the end of the century, the auto-­da-­fé was a powerful tool in Peru, providing a platform for religious authorities to voice their concerns to hundreds of pious Limeños.63 In a city that prided itself by the mid-­seventeenth century on its fourteen convents, its 3,500 clergymen, and its more generous expenditures for pious works and white wax than any other city in the world, heresy was a true spectacle.64 Had the auto-­da-­fé taken place in the countryside, it could not have achieved its purpose. In some respects, Paucar’s auto-­da-­fé was like a rally to attract support for a political party, but the gruesome event was also the practical application of Ávila’s readings, notably Eymerich’s Directorium and Delrío’s Dis­ quisitionum magicarum libri sex, to religious expression in Peru. Both of these authors broke down the division between heretics and magicians, and, in analogy, Ávila broke down the division of Andean religious specialists, the new magus, and the heretic.65

A new l anguage acquires new means: Systematic visitations In 1621, between the auto-­da-­fé of 1609 and the dissemination of the writings of Ávila, Avendaño, and Villagómez in the late 1640s, which severely changed and destroyed the lives of even more alleged hechi­ zeros, the Jesuit José de Arriaga declared, “[M]y plan is to liberate the many souls that are trapped in the devil’s servitude.”66 To him this

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meant countering the clandestine teachings of the hechizeros with disclosure and developing new tools to organize effective episcopal visitation campaigns. In these visitations each bishop had the right to initiate investigations into misconduct in his diocese and punish those he considered guilty. Visitators could initiate interrogations, and bishops could impose any punishment they saw fit.67 Even twelve years after Ávila’s first appearance in public, Arriaga still complained, “We are missing a cure [for that sickness of idolatry and hechizería] and it is because most people do not notice that the evil is greater than anticipated. There was hardly anyone in the beginning who believed in it and even today many doubt it, but only because they cannot see it and grasp it with their own hands. Some deny it wholeheartedly.”68 In fact, in 1610, Fernando Quispillocllayn, for example, from the Yauyos, even though he had claimed to be a good Catholic healer, was suspected to have carried stones in his blue bag.69 Seven years later Tomás Parinanco from the doctrina of Paucartambo was interrogated about his veneration of the huaca Jurpalpa, offering coca and cuys (guinea pigs), among several other things. When he was asked who the founders of the huaca Jurpalpa were, the suspect said that he did not know but that once a curaca had transformed into stone, “so that they [the indios] would venerate him like a God.”70 According to Arriaga, Peru’s biggest problem was that its Spanish and Creole elite still did not believe in the need to take radical steps against these and similar indigenous hechizeros, be they orthodox Andean religious specialists or those who claimed to be Christian healers. The incumbent archbishop, Lobo Guerrero, was an old man, and by 1622 it was obvious that he was sick with gallstones.71 The first sequence of extirpation campaigns was at risk of being interrupted.72 The church lacked priests who were willing to leave “civilization” for the hinterlands, and some indigenous groups seem to have been equally reluctant to host them.73 In 1602, for example, Jesuits tried six times to enter Lauxa, near Huamanga. They gave up because “barbarian Indians longed for our lives.” Many of these Jesuits had already found the trip to the Americas to be a considerable hardship, and some were unwilling to sacrifice more.74 Admittedly, most priests and friars liked to emphasize their voluntary sufferings for their faith, but there is little reason to doubt the difficulty of the journey.75 And when priests finally made their way into the hinterland, they were often considered ill equipped for their duties and morally lax.76 According to Arriaga, priests still allowed Indians to incorporate their huacas into Catholic processions;

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they didn’t interfere with curacas, who often protected hechizeros; and they continued to permit Indians and hechizeros to use their own instruments, especially trumpets and pututus, to gather people from afar. The repression of the indigenous people and their old- and new-­fashioned hechizeros had thus been slow to come, and Arriaga hoped to be the agent of change. He contributed in three respects to the intensification of the discourse on hechizería in Lima’s diocese: first, systematization; second, closer investigation; third, identification of hechizeros with witches. Arriaga’s scrupulously written treatise demonstrated conclusively that Peru’s majority was still deeply mired in idolatry. Arriaga overcame the objections of his less-­ motivated brethren, using his royal patronage to convince powerful Spaniards and Creoles to publish and then draw on his work. Although initially Arriaga’s suggestions were controversial, within twenty years they were being acclaimed in Lima’s highest Catholic circles. Villagómez used Arriaga’s work as the foundation for his extirpation campaign of 1644–77, when he read to the indigenous people of Yaután the Jesuits’ rule that “from now on, no male or female Indian may adopt the names of huacas or thunder. He may no longer call himself Curi, Manco, Misa, Chacpa, Libiac, or Santiago. Instead, he should call himself Diego.”77 Thus, Arriaga’s ideas still underlay the last major campaign in Lima’s archdiocese, launched at a time when he himself had been dead for more than forty years. However, this episode also reveals the limitations in the Jesuit’s imagination, for Arriaga focused in some respects on the superficial and failed to recognize the fact that a “Diego” could be falsely assimilated to Christianity. Perhaps he did not believe that a renamed Indian could still commit idolatry. Yet the records from the 1660s and 1670s show that visitators convicted several “Diegos”—­ including Diego Chauca, Diego Gaxa Guaman, and Diego Guaman— all accused of hechizería. Arriaga made a major contribution to crystallizing this discourse into an actual political program; in fact, he was so diligent and productive that he apparently never slept. The Jesuit cartas annuas (lit­ terae annuae) were more detailed during his tenure than the annual letters ever before or afterward.78 Arriaga brought his organizational talent to bear in the public arena when he began to (re)organize the visitation campaigns of the archdiocese of Lima, a move made necessary by its negative public image.79 In order to regularize visitations and to prevent further abuses, Arriaga developed a standard procedure

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for visitators, tailoring Eymerich’s Directorium inquisitorum—and, perhaps, Delrío’s treatise as well—to the unique situation of Peru’s indigenous idolaters.80 The recommendations in Arriaga’s treatise found widespread support among the visitators of the archdiocese of Lima and among some Jesuits even beyond. Perhaps in keeping with his own obsession with detailed written records, Arriaga mandated that visitators keep three different registers when visiting an indigenous village. He explained, “In all cases the visitator has to record everything that he learns in meticulous and accurate manner. Dubious [cases] should be marked as dubious; reliable data marked as reliable.”81 The visitator was to title one book “The idolatry that was found in such and such a village on such and such a day, month, and year.” In this book the visitator (or his secretary) was to record the names of idolaters and hechizeros who confessed what they knew about huacas and idolatries in their village. A second book was to be called “Accusations against Indians in this village, in this part of the country, on such and such a day, month, and year.” In this book, the visitator was to record the accusations Indians made against their fellows and against local hechizeros. Every member of the village was to appear before the visitator. Testifying to his flair for the dramatic, Arriaga then provided a detailed description of the physical space where the questioning would take place. The visitator was to sit behind a desk in the village church, a crucifix or cross carefully placed beside him.82 Once the indigenous person stepped up to the visitator, he or she was to remain standing while answering the visitator’s questions about huacas, mullus, and other venerated items. Arriaga was at pains to distinguish between these interrogations and confessions, which took place with the Indians sitting or kneeling. From this distinction, the Indians were meant to realize that absolution worked more directly in a confessional than in semipublic visitations. Indians could also use the quipu to document their sins. After the visitator had finished, the notary was to immediately place little crosses next to the names of accused hechizeros, who would be supervised closely in the future. The questioning procedure should last until dinner was ready; then the remaining indigenous people were to kneel down in two rows in front of the church.83 When the visitator finally stepped out of the church after a long day of examination, he was to tell the Indians, “You are still children of the devil.” After this statement, the visitator was to have the Indians abjure and was to make the sign of the Cross with his right hand above his head, “since it is known that indios are utterly

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impressed with these public ceremonies.” Finally, he was to flog the Indians and make them listen to a lecture from Eymerich’s Directorium inquisitorum. On the following day, the Indians were to gather their idols and deliver them to the church. The visitator was then to open his third book. In it, he was to record all the items collected, noting the name of the huaca and that of its owner. The next step was to burn these idols, whose remains were to be thrown into a river so that Indians could not gather and misuse the remnants and ashes. Finally, the visitator was to summon the hechi­ zeros and order them to study Christian doctrine every day. From that time on, hechizeros were to wear an eight-­inch-­long cross around their necks—either to make them distinguishable from the rest of the people or to direct God’s power against them.84 The visitation procedure was concluded by a procession of hechizeros: after a special mass the hechi­ zeros were to follow the cross with candles in their hands, ropes around their necks, and (sometimes) with corozas, the hats worn by victims during autos-­da-­fé. The hechizeros were to publicly tell their fellow Indians that they no longer worshipped huacas and that they had lied for their entire lives. This is the exact punishment that Inca Tupac Amaru received prior to his death in 1572. Thus, Arriaga’s 1621 treatment of hechizeros indicates that he, at least, considered them to be the heirs of Tupac Amaru. Indeed, Jesuits still considered hechizeros to be leaders among the Indians, and Arriaga knew that without their support, the Indians could never be wholly converted. After this public confession, the hechizeros had to walk as penitents in front of the cross. As Arriaga wrote, “To anyone who can observe this spectacle with his own eyes, it provokes deep sentiments and instills great respect.”85 Arriaga’s program was evidently implemented in Lima’s hinterland. The visitator Juan Sarmiento de Vivero became a close reader of Arriaga and a humble devotee of Pedro de Villagómez. He enacted Arriaga’s program in San Lorenzo de Quinti in 1660, castigating María Chumbiconu, Martha Magdalena, María Chumbu Julla, and more than twenty other Indians for their “idolatries, hechizerías, superstitions,” and blasphemies. Don Pedro Solis de Quinti, named a “dogmatizer, hechizero, idolater,” received instructions, the perpetual cross, and banishment from his hometown. Alvira Suyo o Cargua received one hundred lashes over a “bestia de albarda corosa” and was condemned to wear the perpetual cross. María Guanico, named a master and “idolatrous hechi­ zera,” received a perpetual iron cross and the standard physical punishment—all this in conformity with Arriaga’s program and its execution

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by Villagómez. At the same time, other visitators imposed different kinds of punishments.86 These seem to have depended also on the visitator’s personality, and on whether he was a more or less zealous servant of Lima’s Catholic Church.87 Often, visitators implemented Arriaga’s suggestions in combination with the punishments legislated by Lima’s First and Third Councils.88 The First Council had mandated fifty lashes for a first offense, and a hundred lashes plus ten days’ imprisonment for a second offense. The Third Council had called for imprisonment and instruction. Throughout the 1650s, ’60s, and ’70s, visitators ruled that hechizeros—called hechizeros supersticiosos, hechizeros idolatras, and many other names—be punished with floggings, incarcerations, abjurations, and confiscations of goods.89 Imprisonment continued to be the norm even during the height of the hechizero craze, when suspicion of evil sorcery and pacts with the devil ran rampant, from the 1650s to the late 1690s, ceasing shortly after the turn of the century.90 Physical torture was rare.91 Instead, hechizeros were often sent to prison in a small parish or to the Casa de Santa Cruz in Lima, where they might remain for life.92 Not every hechizero was as lucky as Pedro Vilca Guaman, the religious specialist who managed to escape his makeshift prison in Huarochirí in 1700. As late as 1771, Trujillo’s officials physically segregated hechizeros from the rest of the population. María Isidora Asnarán, an indigenous woman from Trujillo, complained about the prison’s excessive cold, protesting especially in light of her horrible fever. She applied for a transfer to the Hospital Bethelemitico.93 In none of these cases do we know how families and ayllus dealt with the loss of these individuals and their expertise. Sometimes we find record of a desperate husband asking for his wife’s release—but without success.94 In comparison with the punishments witches faced in early modern Europe, those of hechizeros in Peru were generally mild. But consider the fate of María Pomachumbi, who in 1650 suffered exile and humiliation for her uncompromising loyalty to her ayllu’s traditions. She was an alleged hechizera who, in the words of the Spaniards, “committed serious and abominable venerations and idolatries and was a priestess of huacas and idols that belonged to the village and ayllu of Huamantanga; and she had agreed on venerating and worshipping them by use of evil deeds (maleficios) and sorceries so as to increase livestock; all this fraudulently and by means of an explicit pact with the devil.” As a result, María was forced to work without pay in the Santa Ana Hospital in Lima, one hundred miles away from her village.95 It was stipulated that she should never return to her hometown “because of the damage

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that she had caused with her evil life and her depraved customs.” Did María adapt to her new life in the hospital? Did she ever come to believe that she had harmed anyone? What did she do in the Santa Ana Hospital?96 The documents provide no answer. A number of visitators sent female hechizeras to work at the Santa Ana Hospital, while most male hechizeros were imprisoned in the Casa de Santa Cruz in Santiago del Cercado (a part of Lima).97 If we are to believe Arriaga, the Casa de Santa Cruz, in 1621 at least, resembled a boarding school populated by old men: “Right now there are forty hechizeros in the prison Casa de Santa Cruz. It had been erected for the most dangerous hechi­ zeros. Most of them are very old. The house was built functionally, and it is convenient to house many of them. The hechizeros never leave the house, except in the company of an official, when they attend mass and the sermons on church holidays. Every day, a priest instructs them in the Catholic faith. They receive plenty of food on behalf of the viceroy. Although spinning wheels have been erected for the fabrication of wool for their living—which is a simple work, and common among Indians—it is not enough for what they eat. Only those who are able to work do so, and they work only as much as they want to.”98 Despite Arriaga’s almost idyllic picture of life in the Casa de Santa Cruz, we cannot imagine what the everyday life of hechizeros in the prison was really like. We do not know whether religious specialists from different regions began to exchange knowledge, whether they began to believe in the Christian God’s powers and virtues, or whether they debated the theological implications of the Holy Trinity, as Arriaga envisioned.99 Did they try to call on their huacas for help? These interesting details cannot be recovered, but Don Rupaichahua’s 1669 case illustrates the agony of one religious specialist who came to suffer for his traditions. Don Rupaichahua was a curaca of Huamantanga who wrote with great fervor against an extremely zealous visitator, Juan Sarmiento de Vivero. The curaca complained that the visitator had incarcerated him without properly notifying him of the reason for his imprisonment.100 Claiming that he had been treated unjustly and following a path taken by many other sixteenth-­century community leaders, he exploited the Spanish legal system and petitioned for restitution. Don Rupaichahua was eventually locked up in the Casa de Santa Cruz, and he was far from the only one who felt the strains of colonial rule. Many others came to be separated from their families, ayllus, and huacas. In addition to his “success” in developing a new standard procedure for dealing with hechizeros, a plan that would be amplified consider-

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ably by Villagómez in 1649, Arriaga also became an innovator of a different sort. He became Peru’s most eminent seventeenth-­century critic of Andean rituals. Instead of simply sending all the data that he had collected about idolatry to Rome in the cartas annuas or to the Council of the Indies in the less detailed relaciones geográficas, Arriaga made this knowledge accessible to a broader Peruvian audience. As Arriaga deplored in the preface of his publication—despite Polo de Ondegardo’s list of Andean rituals that the Third Lima Council regarded as sins that required confessions—idolatry was even less visible as “Indians now perform their same old rituals in utter secrecy.”101 Secrecy could be combated only by bringing occult practices into the light, and such exposure, in turn, would bring greater power over Indians. In theory, private confession was turned into a public one. Therefore, Arriaga was careful to distinguish the one from the other through a clear set of symbols. If a priest, when hearing a public confession in a visitation, could ask an Indian precise questions about what he or she worshipped and what rituals he or she performed, he would gain an advantage over the Indian. If the priest were uninformed, the Indian would be able to evade his questions far more easily. Since knowledge about indigenous customs provided Catholics with legitimacy in the persecution of hechizerías and idolatries, this knowledge gave them power. But to prove that an Indian engaged in acts of sorcery, interactions with the demons, or non-­Catholic rituals, a visitator or confessor needed detailed evidence.102 Avendaño and Villagómez followed suit.

Interpreting the rituals of hechizeros in the seventeenth century According to his own estimate, Arriaga confessed 6,000 people between 1617 and 1618, including 700 hechizeros and dogmatizers, and 63 brujos (witches). Arriaga skillfully wove these confessions in visitations together with information derived from Roman classics, biblical wisdom, and medieval and early modern treatises on witchcraft.103 Arriaga gave ample evidence that the everyday life of indigenous people was pervaded by superstitions. Hechizeros and idolatries were present in almost every period of life: birth, marriage, child rearing, confession, and death. Arriaga also developed a neat hierarchical classification of sorcerers, in the order huacapvillac, libiacvíllpac, maquipvillac, macsa or viha, aucachic, sócyac, rápiac, móscoc, and hacarícuc. These

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sorcerers could talk to huacas, the Sun, or mallquis. They were either healers, confessors, diviners, interpreters of dreams, or prophesiers who relied on the intestines of cuys. Though he would later be criticized by Bernabé Cobo for these compartmentalizations, Arriaga undoubtedly contributed in a third respect to Lima’s discourse on magic that constrained the liberties of many religious specialists of the central Andes. Arriaga helped develop and spread a distinctive image of the witch in colonial Peru. In one of his illustrations of indigenous idolatry, Arriaga described some hechi­ zeros known as chupadores (“suckers of fat,” according to Andeans, but “suckers of blood” in the Spanish interpretation).104 He said he had heard this story while he was with Avendaño on a visita (a very similar story had already appeared in the cartas annuas in 1617).105 On a certain day, the chupador gathered his pupils into a house at night, where he would put them all into a deep sleep. Then the chupador would leave and approach another person whom he wanted to kill. He would suck some blood from his victim and then carry it back to the meeting. There, Arriaga recounted, the chupador and his fellow hechizeros sat around a cooking pot and ate the “blood, which the devil multiplied, or converted into flesh. (I think they mix it together with some other meat.) In each session, they boil it and eat it. The effect is that the person from whom they have sucked the blood dies within two or three days.” Arriaga continued, “When I asked one of them what kind of meat it was and how it tasted, he answered by making a face showing his disgust [and said] that it tasted bad, insipid, and like air-­ dried cattle meat. During these sessions the demon appeared to them. He came either in the shape of a puma or a jaguar that took a seat, or rested on its forepaws, and was generally horrible to look at. They worshipped him.” These nightly gatherings served as an initiation process. The chupador told the young boys, “Now you are brujos [witches] and you have to visit us each time we call for you. If you don’t come or if you betray us, we will kill you.” In this multilayered account of the chupa­ dores, Arriaga fused information from different cultural traditions. In some ways, his understanding of the chupadores reflected indigenous understandings of sickness, drawing on a concept that the Taki Onkoy religious specialists had already employed.106 However, as discussed in chapters 2 and 3, the Taki Onkoy priests had identified Spaniards as the ones who were stealing essential body fat. During colonial times, fat—and not necessarily blood—­continued to be an Andean symbol of the essence of life and of the power to endow ritual acts, objects, and

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human beings with vital force.107 Fear of the pishtacu or karishiri, an evil person who sneaks in at night and steals human fat, is still widespread in the Andes.108 Andeans sometimes identify the pishtacu with the forastero, or foreigner, who brings evil from the outside. Andeans may have made this identification even before Spaniards arrived, but this cannot be proven. The sixteenth-­century author Felipe Guaman Poma de Ayala (and, indirectly, the Doctrina christiana) had previously referred to chupado­ res, characterizing them as (fraudulent) healers.109 Unlike Arriaga, however, Guaman Poma did not depict them as evil witches gathering for a nightly sabbath; nor did he describe an army of hechizeros stealthily stealing blood by night or suggest cannibalistic blood drinking. Arriaga’s representation of the chupadores’ deeds was indeed fabricated from several discourses: from Europe, from the Andes, and from New Spain. In 1529, Martín de Castañega had already reported on New Spain’s chupadores, probably citing Gonzalo Fernández de Oviedo y Valdés (1478–1557).110 The interpretation of the chupador in Arriaga thus obviously traveled from New Spain to Europe, and then into the Andes. Much like Castañega, in Arriaga’s eyes, a chupador was a villain that resembled a witch.111 In Martín Delrío’s book, witches can put other human beings into a deep sleep.112 In addition, Arriaga’s story has some questionable elements. We might ask whether the Indian who supposedly said that the flesh tasted like old cow meat even knew how a cow tasted, since it did not commonly belong to the diet of the colonial-­ era Indian.113 The way in which Arriaga presented chupadores’ activities, though not necessarily the idea of chupadores, seems to have been foreign to the Andean horizon. Nevertheless, this account of the chu­ padores was considered a valuable cautionary tale for Jesuit missionaries in the New World. Gerónimo Pallas included it in his Misión a las Indias, con advertencias para los religiosos de Europa, a handbook for European Jesuits contemplating missions, which circulated only in manuscript form from the 1620s onwards.114 Pallas, who had also been a missionary to Peru, wished to warn his brethren about the evil that lurked in the New World. Indeed, toward the mid-­seventeenth century, Catholic clergy and visitators in Peru began to see not just Andean commoners but the maleficio (evil sorcery) of hechizeros everywhere. The visitation records, however, do not include a confession about such a seventeenth-­century chupador. But Catholic propaganda played its part in disseminating a new fear of evil sorcery in Andean society.

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The fusion of two hitherto separate discourses: The idol ater becomes the heretic and the witch In accordance with Archbishop Villagómez’s explicit and detailed Exor­ taciones y carta pastoral (1649), greater numbers of visitators ventured into the highland of Lima’s archdiocese during the second half of the seventeenth century, better instructed than those of the generation before. Villagómez added a few things to Arriaga’s intellectual arsenal, including hymns, sermons, and even more record books. Visitators were now advised to keep six books instead of Arriaga’s three. In line with Jesuit practice, visitators were to take along rosaries, images of saints, little crosses, and copies of the catechism to distribute to the Indians.115 Villagómez’s Carta pastoral and Avendaño’s Sermones de los misterios de nuestra santa fe católica were sometimes even bound together in one book.116 The archbishop was convinced that borracheras—those collective benders with chicha—and improper instruction in the Christian faith were the source of much of the evil in the Andes.117 Avendaño’s sermons about the mysteries of the Catholic faith added to this perception by detailing the genesis of demons. He explained how God had punished these former angels, dispersing them throughout the air, the earth, and the underworld. Because of their fall, they had become ugly creatures. The only positive thing that Avendaño had to say about these demons was that their fall had left some space in the heavenly ranks next to God, which faithful Christians could hope to occupy in the afterlife. Hechizeros, however, were in the thrall of these horrible fallen angels. In fact, one could not believe a single word a hechizero said because demons could speak directly from a hechizero’s mouth. Further expounding on the relationship between hechizeros and demons, Villagómez added that demons crept into the imagination of hechizeros via the borracheras.118 By the mid-­seventeenth century, the hechizero had therefore become almost an incarnation of the demonic. Given this extreme outlook, it is unsurprising that Villagómez was determined to find a permanent solution for the hechizeros’ adherence to demon worship. For the last time in Lima’s history, he used his power as an archbishop to draw on Jesuits, visitators, and—as he hoped—indigenous collaborators to solve the problem. A visitator should bribe clever Indians to become allies of the Church. As Villagómez suggested in his Carta pastoral, “Look out for the most canny Indian in a village and offer him an award if he collaborates.”

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In Villagómez’s regulations, three discourses of ultimately European origin were finally entirely fused: the discourse of hechizero as idolater, the discourse on the magus as heretic, and the discourse on the witch. The main current of the late sixteenth- and early seventeenth-­century discourse of hechizero as indigenous idolater was in Lima thus replaced. The final fusion of the hechizero with the heretic—even though the hechizeros remained under the supervision of the archbishop and were not handed over to the Inquisition—is apparent in the first question a visitator was to pose to a confessing Indian: “First of all, do you know or have you seen or heard, or understood by whatever means, that some male or female Indian is or has been a heretic, or has believed in heresy or made any heretical statements, or has spread errors?”119 This discourse merged with the discourse on Creole, Afro-­Peruvian, and pardo (mixed-­raced) hechizerías, and especially witchcraft—a tendency that was also stimulated by intercultural exchanges that brought to the Andes a new notion of maleficio, as will be explored in chapter 7. But in the first instance it was a projection of European demonology onto the world of Andean religious specialists. Around the mid-­seventeenth century, for a few years visitators and priests began to pose the same questions to their indigenous parishioners that inquisitors asked their non-­indigenous hechizeros. And more and more, as is already well known, they identified women as the primary culprits. In 1650, the visitator Antonio Cáceres saw it as his obligation to root out indigenous witches from the countryside. Inés Carua Chumbi, a woman from Pomacocha, in Lima’s hinterland, was one of the victims of his effort. Inés was considered a “muy grande muger de echizería,” known for healing with herbs and various concoctions.120 Her healing protocols also included regular “feedings” or sacrifices to a “demon” called either Capa Quircay or Apo Quircay de Chicharycocha. In addition, Inés was a teacher of idolatries and instructed her grandchild in her arts. According to her own testimony, Inés’s only sin was healing her patients by rubbing their bodies with llama fat and with white and black maize. Yet the presbyter found that she failed to recognize a much greater sin: her contact with the demon. Years earlier, Inés and her now-­deceased husband used to worship the Apo together. In their offerings, they carefully followed the appropriate dualities of Andean rituals, joining black and white maize and so forth. When asked how often she had talked to the demon, Inés confessed that she had spoken with him twice. Apparently, he appeared in a white gown. At first the demon requested money and food, but when Inés replied that she was

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a widow, the demon gave her maize and maca (the tuber that Cobo knew as a fertility stimulant). This explained the maca and maize in Inés’s house at which the visitator had already marveled. The next question Cáceres asked was whether she had slept with the demon. Inés replied that she had slept with him twice. And finally she was interrogated about the mechanics of the intercourse. Had the demon taken her in the same manner as her husband? Inés answered yes, in the exact same manner. “What quality did the semen have?” Inés said that it was like warm white milk. Finally, when asked about the appearance of the demon’s penis, Inés answered that it had the same form as her husband’s.121 After this confession, Cáceres punished Inés with “excomunión mayor,” a punishment that was usually reserved for non-­ indigenous witches. Inés was not the only indigenous person in the latter half of the sev‑ enteenth century to experience this new kind of interrogation. Other hechizeros were increasingly suspected of seeking the aid of demons to undertake maleficent witchcraft.122 Acts of maleficio were detected from the 1650s until the turn of the eighteenth century and even beyond.123 Suspicions of both kinds of infractions, maleficio and witchcraft, crept into the Andes by various informal channels. High and low cultures both participated in this transmission, and Arriaga’s treatise introduced a more definite image of the witch than the chroniclers before him had provided.124 Both his work and the writings of his contemporaries tightened the imagined links between hechizeros and demons.125 At the same time, increased concern with the crime of maleficio was also a product of individual visitators. When Cáceres began to interrogate an hechizera about her pact with the devil, he drew more from sources like Delrío’s Disquisitionum magicarum libri sex, which was widely disseminated, and the Malleus maleficarum than from Avendaño’s or Villagómez’s instructions. Moreover, as we will see in chapter 7, the suspicion of a maleficent woman was predicated on an influx into the Andes of Spanish and Afro-­Peruvian practices and, of course, contingent on laypeople’s accepting that maleficio existed.

Native notions of demons? The clergy strongly suspected that hechizeros and demons interacted. But as we shift our focus away from this missionizing Christian elite, we must ask whether indigenous people ever shared their belief in demons. Before the 1650s, indigenous witnesses rarely related sightings

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of demons, which Spaniards often equated with upani or supay.126 But from the 1650s until the late 1690s, and then again in eighteenth-­century Quito, Arequipa, Trujillo, and Cuzco, so-­called demons periodically appeared in their dreams or on other occasions. We have no transparent ethnohistorical accounts of these appearances, however, because they were transmitted through the pens of Catholic notaries of idolatries, who scribbled down the witnesses’ testimonies. In grappling with this result of linguistic and cultural translation, the historian must discern carefully whether the entity seemed to the indigenous person to have the quality of an old Andean huaca or of a European demon. Apparitions of “demons” in the form of pumas, snakes, or condors still seem to resonate with Andean symbolism, but sometimes the demon might appear as the Virgin Mary or a priest.127 Andean apparitions also often occurred in white—for example, a white Santiago or a white dog (see chapter 6). Avendaño, in contrast, depicted the demon as a huge black dog.128 When an Indian named Fernando ventured into the countryside to look for his horses one day in 1650, he came to a cave where he encountered the demon in the form of a white dog.129 The Indian who saw the white dog was given black stones by a demon and became a healer; in this typical Andean experience, the alleged demon was actually still a huaca. In other instances as well, demons in testimonies did not resemble the terrifying figures that populated church walls in (mainly) the southern Andes.130 Nor were they fantastic figures like Punchao, possibly a being with solar rays radiating from its heads and with serpents emerging from its sides. The majority of these reported demons were animal apparitions, characteristic of the Andes. The colonization of the indigenous imagination thus was slow to progress, despite Ávila’s description of horrifying figures with tails, or Avendaño’s black dog. The Doctrina christiana didn’t even attempt to provide a more detailed image of the demon. Yet in some instances, Indians glimpsed demons more in keeping with the European model. In one recorded instance, a man saw a diabolical goat. In Trujillo in 1774—and thus quite late—María Olalla was suspected of being a witch because of her ability to make herself dissolve in the mountains. In another instance, two witnesses, Pablo Huran and Garpan Florez, reported sighting the devil. To one, he appeared in the figure of a goat; to the other one—significantly—as an Englishman.131 A goat also appears in the image of the Cross of Carabuco. There, the animal is shown being worshipped by Indians with coca leaves. In sixteenth-­century European parlance, the goat commonly symbolized a witch. Dürer painted

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a witch riding on a goat, and the Waldensians, much reproached for witchcraft, were depicted in European woodcuts kneeling in front of a goat. Carabuco’s goat radiates fire from its back. Had some priest told the artist that the devil takes the form of a goat? The image of the Indian witch may have spread through the Andes by religious figures influenced by this discourse about indigenous idolatries. But in urban Lima during the same period, inquisitors were relentlessly intensifying the prosecution of non-­indigenous hechizeras and thereby helping to bring the notions of maleficio and the witch into the Andes. From 1630 to 1660, female hechizeras of mulatto, other casta, and Spanish background were targeted in increasing numbers.132 Most cases dealt with the offense of superstition—a term that could encompass as many “crimes” as the term hechizería.133 In 1639, in an auto-­da-­fé in Lima, several female hechizeras were brought to the Plaza Mayor to confess their crimes.134 Mariana de Olaba, hechizera of Cuzco, had to confess to a pact with the devil. After being forced to wear a coroza and carry a green candle around the plaza, she was banned from Cuzco and Lima. Ana María de Contreras, a mulatto woman, was also considered a great hechizera. She received one hundred lashes and was branded. A Creole hechizera faced banishment from Potosí and Chuquisaca for six years, while a woman from Cuzco classified as a “natural,” Beatriz de la Vandera, was charged with hechizerías and with having a demon appear to her in the form of an ape. She was exiled for four years. A mestizo woman originally from Ayacucho received one hundred lashes because she had seen a demon in several apparitions. She was banned from Cuzco for three years. And Luisa, a casta woman who had allegedly deceived many Limeños, received the standard punishment for an hechizera: she had to leave Lima for good. In the years 1655–56, four mulatto hechizeras were prosecuted: María de Cordova, Antonia de Abarca, Luisa de Vargas, and Ana Vallejo. They had made invocations to the demons, mixing them with invocations to the ocean. Last but not least, it became obvious that these nonnative practitioners had begun to borrow from indigenous practices. From 1621 to 1700, a total of eighty-­eight persons were prosecuted for involvement in idolatrous ceremonies, pacts with the devil, superstitious faith healings, and love magic.135 The persecution of indigenous hechizeros thus reinforced the persecution of non-­indigenous hechizeros and vice versa.136 The same rise in the persecutions of “superstitions” occurred in the Cartagena tribunal. Here, from 1621 to 1650, inquisitors punished primarily Afro-­ Peruvian hechizeros, mostly condemning them to abjurations.

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The reasons for this increase in persecution were many. The range of crimes expanded in 1630, when the Inquisition of Lima published an instruction that prohibited faith healers. Even more important was the massive circulation in the New World of Delrío’s Disquisitionum magi­ carum libri sex also in this context.137

Changing strategies: The effects of visitation campaigns beyond Lima In Lima, at intervals of twenty years or so, a new generation of outstanding Catholics thought they had found the ultimate solution to indigenous idolatry and hechizería. In 1583, 1609, 1621, and 1649, new programs were developed to correct malefactors and eliminate heresy from the “republic” of Indians. The solutions were confessions, reeducation, the separation of hechizeros from the rest of the population, systematic visitation campaigns, and persecutions and punishment of hechizeros as magi and heretics, as well as an indoctrination about a European notion of the workings of nature (that Ávila and Avendaño, especially, saw fit).138 The more the Catholic clergy were foiled by the hechizeros’ ongoing cultural performances, the more alleged erroneous Andean assimilations to Catholic practices were observed. And the more European demonology entered Spanish and Creole circles, the more dangerous the demon and his pupil, the hechizero, became in their eyes. But while the Spanish and Creole clergy in Lima’s archdiocese placed demonology at the center of archiepiscopal politics, the available data indicate that in the dioceses of Cuzco, Trujillo, Cajamarca, Quito, and Charcas (archdiocese since 1609), the bishops saw no need for systematic episcopal persecutions of idolatry and hechizería during the seventeenth century.139 Only Arequipa saw—with Pedro de Villagómez (1635– 40), the same who later became archbishop of Lima, and with Antonio de León y Becerra (1677–1708)—two bishops who tried to put the extirpation of idolatry to the fore.140 In 1649, Villagómez and some of his Jesuit supporters—much like Viceroy Esquilache (1609–22) in 1619—would have liked to see Cuzco’s bishop follow the Lima line.141 Villagómez reprinted the devout letter of a Jesuit, Francisco Patiño, to convince the prelate of the necessity of persecution. Patiño, a priest from Huamanga operating under the auspices of Juan Alonso de Ocón (1644–52), referred to his own diocese of Cuzco as the “madre de la idolatría” (the mother of all idolatries). Yet Bishop Ocón remained unconvinced and took no steps to launch a systematic campaign of persecution.142

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But even in the absence of systematic episcopal persecutions, religious specialists in the provinces did not live in tranquility.143 In the missions, it was Acosta’s discourse on the hechizero as idolater that still dominated throughout the seventeenth century. Here, the belief that hechizeros consulted idols, and that the demon occupied the idols, and that these idols possibly spoke, was still valuable; the demonology that emphasized the magus as heretic and the heretic as a witch, in contrast, had insignificant impact until the late eighteenth century. But even here, toward the end of the seventeenth century, one or the other Jesuit paid particular interest in cases of maleficio.144 In general, however, the Jesuit short- and longer-­term missions among the Huamalí and the Conchuco, in Cajatambo, Huarochirí, Huamanga, Cuzco, Julí, Arequipa, and in other places, still dominated the preoccupation with confessions, which we already encountered in chapter 1, and the salvation of the Indians by other means than coercive visitation. Indoctrination was one means, saint worship another, and cofradías a third (among the Jesuits often called “Niño Jesús” or “Nombre de Jesús”). But even then, Jesuits as far distant as modern-­day Chile employed incarceration, reeducation, and more subtle means to extirpate hechizeros’ beliefs.145 In 1606, Jesuits had arrested seven hechizeros in the Condesuyos mission south of Cuzco; in 1627, they arrested thirty. In 1639 in Cuzco, some time between 1664 and 1666 in Arequipa, in 1675 among the Huamalí, sometime between 1680 and 1690 in Huánuco, and surely on many other occasions that did not find their entry into the cartas annuas, Jesuits destroyed the idols of hechizeros.146 Among the Chumbivilca, south of Cuzco, Jesuits publicly heard the confession of an hechizera.147 In 1664, an hechizera from Julí was suspected of having a pact with the devil.148 In 1676, the Jesuits Pedro Narbán Arias and José del Castillo found that being an hechizero was considered a great honor among the Mojos.149 In 1696, Diego de Eguíluz saw the hechizeros among the Mojos as instruments of the devil. Regardless of whether it was operating within or beyond the boundaries of the archdiocese of Lima, the Society of Jesus thought it could win over hechizeros with the combined might of God, sermons, symbols, and images. In Huacho in 1650, the Jesuit visitator Phelipe de Medina arrested an hechizera for her superstitious healing practices.150 And in 1660, Jesuits sent hechi­ zeros who had served as healers in the hinterland to the Casa de Santa Cruz in Lima. Sebastían Valerte wrote in 1675, from the mission among the Conchuco near Huaraz, that they erected a cross in the hamlet of an old hechizera.151 Hechizeros would here function as priests, doctors, and

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wise men. In Huamanga in 1678, a Jesuit instructed a woman because she had consulted an hechizero.152 Up to around 1700, the list could be extended easily. In all their endeavors and missions, the Jesuits hoped for the help of Mary and thought of themselves as Joseph in Egypt.153 In the mid to late seventeenth century, they still often referred to “the villages of barbarians.”154 Yet despite the Jesuit insistence on conformity, the clergy in the provinces often employed more subtle strategies than did their brethren in Lima. One of these strategies (and the next chapter shows other means), the Jesuits, stood at the beginning of a strategy that employed images, especially those of hell, to move indigenous people to conversion.155 Carabuco’s depiction of hell was only one among many others in the southern Andes. It is said that already in the late sixteenth and early seventeenth centuries, the Jesuit painter Bernardo Bitti painted a large image for the Jesuit church in Cuzco that represented the punishments in hell.156 In a famous trope, Guaman Poma suggested to the Spanish king that in every church there should be an image of the Last Judgment and hell.157 And even though Avendaño’s account of 1649 is surely a distorted mirror of Andean practices, when compared with visitation protocols, the visitator does capture practices that for many Indians were still as valid as they had been before the arrival of priests into their lands. At the same time, it mirrors the conviction in the provinces that Andean customs required a biting tone and the prospect of hell. In one of his sample sermons, the priest should address the native churchgoer: You know how hechizeros deceive sick Indians when they tell them they are sick because they have forgotten their mallquis, and that if they offer them [the mallquis] drink, they will heal. I tell you that your mallquis’ souls are in hell. Thus, they cannot even liberate themselves from the punishment of hell: how can they then care about you and liberate you from your sickness? Tell me, if you were imprisoned behind bars and your son whom you love so much was imprisoned in a different jail . . . and he were to beg you, my father, please help me get out of this prison, help me so that the corregidor might liberate me from this prison. Would you not tell your son, stupid you, can’t you see that I am suffering as well and can’t even liberate myself from this prison? . . . In the same manner, your mallquis—because they adored huacas like gods and because of many other sins—are burning in hell. Therefore they cannot liberate you from your sicknesses. Do you

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understand that, hermano? What do you say? What can you respond? Do you still say there must be an indio who dares to consult an hechi­ zero and offer drink to his mallquis?158

A local clergy and different orders in rural settings—far off from the Spanish and Creole political centers—made artists translate these and similar convictions into paintings. Demons began to be depicted on church walls, as we have already seen, in Carabuco by the late sev‑ enteenth century, and in Huaro, Caquiaviri, Oyón, and several other places by the early to mid-­eighteenth century. In the highland areas, especially in the southern Andes, more demons in paintings were pulling Indians into hell than in the northern or central highlands.159 These images were to speak for themselves, as they mainly aimed at speaking to an indigenous population in rural areas and not necessarily to a Spanish or Creole urban population. By beholding the punishments, Andeans were admonished to renounce their customs. As chapter 8 shows, even in the late eighteenth century, suspicion of idolatry and hechizería lingered on in the peripheries. Priests who indoctrinated Aymara-­speaking Andeans could draw on detailed examples in the Aymara language on what hell and purgatory meant.160 These Andeans were ideally led to penance prior to seeing a priest or even without a priest in an act of confession. In the absence of systematic episcopal visitations, therefore, and in recognition of the failure of the systematic visitation campaigns in Lima’s hinterland, fear instilled by images, which Acosta had once considered requisite in indoctrination, was yet again considered an effective as well as necessary means to finally turn indigenous people away from idolatries and to defend a true Catholic society.161 With the church instilling this fear, the indigenous people were indirectly deemed responsible for ensuring their own salvation. But unlike seventeenth-­century preoccupations among missionizing Jesuits in the later colonial period in the periphery of Spanish and Creole power, a new fear rested now on the side of those Catholics who held political power. As chapter 8 shows, these depictions of hell originated in a context of fear—fear that originated in the face of well-­ known sociopolitical instances of unrest and political claims about the reinvigoration of the Incas. It also originated from newly acquired knowledge about Andean religious specialists and their respective trust in Inca power (see chapter 6) and their respective power to induce harm by other means than by taking up arms (see chapters 7).

Chapter Five

From Outspoken Criticism to Cl andestine Resistance

Against the hypocrisy of the mind; or, Retaining the notion of embodiment During the seventeenth century, times grew difficult for religious specialists. Over the previous few generations, their enemies and obstacles had multiplied as they increasingly struggled against God and the Catholic priests, visitors and unknown sicknesses, ongoing denunciations, and the conversion of their own people to Catholicism. It might seem likely that religious specialists, facing the misery of conquest, started to believe what priests had preached all along: that God and his staff were more powerful than their huacas. Some religious specialists certainly did.1 Many others, however, were not led by God, or by the tortures of demons, onto the path toward the hierarchies of heaven—despite what Jesuits liked to suggest. More important, religious specialists were far from defenseless against Catholic powers and the many subtle challenges to their authorities and skills. They entered a dialogue with the Catholic priests about the basic premises of their own theology. Since Jesuits like Rodrigo de Cabredo and preachers like Fernando de Avendaño were skilled in a Ciceronian rhetoric that hailed the effects of speech on listeners and, indirectly, readers, these authors reproduced the oral statements of religious specialists brought forth against the various friars in the dioceses of Cuzco, Charcas, and Tucumán.2 These restaged dialogues originated in simple prison cells and the many elaborate confessionals in the various churches. Feeling like disciples sent by God into pagan territory, Jesuit priests in their missions, detached from the political center in Lima and its vibrant discourses about indigenous people as heretics and witches, trusted in the powers stored in the cross, the host, the depictions of Saint Ignatius,

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and the Catholic rituals to overcome the religious specialists’ objections against Catholic theology. Beyond Lima’s boundaries, therefore, Jesuits—along with the Augustinians and Franciscans—preferred to speak via symbols and actions. According to Andean religious specialists, the theoretical arguments presented by the Catholics did not prove convincing. Theory and practice, as we will see, diverged much more sharply in Peruvian Catholicism than in Andean logic. For us, these faint echoes of a long-­ago communication show that religious specialists were not merely people who, in answer to Catholic accusations, were reduced to simply uttering, “No, I did not”—as the visitation records make them appear. Instead, religious specialists—the former camascas, amautas, and other wise men and women of Andean and Inca society—argued on substantial grounds that Catholicism was not so different from the Andean religion. They had already begun to do so in earliest colonial times. This chapter shows how the discourse about representation versus embodiment evolved, and partly explains its failure with the divergence between Catholic theory and practice in which a number of potent Catholic objects were designed to create different republics in viceregal society. Another reason for its failure was the resistance of Andean religious specialists toward the intrusion of potent Catholic objects into the world of Andean rituals. But while Andean religious specialists tried to retain the purity of their ritual mesas, at the same time they articulated the way Andean commoners should assimilate to Catholicism following the principle of juxtapositioning. Against the background of mutual assimilations in the world of Catholic symbolism, the singularity of Andean religious specialists’ actions will be understood. The notion of embodiment retained its power throughout the seventeenth century.

The discourse on embodiment versus representation In his report to Don Diego de Castro, Inca Titu Cusi Yupanqui, in the latter sixteenth century, had already remarked in passing that Catholics’ worship of a person painted on cloth was similar to deifying a huaca.3 Religious specialists argued as well that revering a saintly statue was like venerating an Andean huaca, thereby calling into question the claim that there was a significant difference between a saint and a huaca. The Catholic priests, of course, argued to the contrary. In

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its famous sermon 19, the Third Catechism of 1585 told hechizeros to strictly follow the distinction between representation and embodiment when they worshipped saints. It admonished the confessing hechizero: “When you say that Christians would adore the pictures that are printed or made from wood [and] metal, and kiss them and kneel down before them and begin to talk to them, and ask, ‘aren’t those huacas much like ours?’ the answer must be ‘no.’ Christians do not adore images for their own sake, for Christians do not adore the wood, the metal, or the image, but rather Jesus Christ, the Virgin Mary as mother of all saints, and all the other saints. But all these saints are not [contained] in the images or statues. Instead, they are only painted on them. Therefore, Christians are to give their hearts to the heavens and to Christ, for those images represent [Christ and the Virgin], but they are not in them.” The priest was to conclude, “You have your heart in the figure and you assume that the figure is enclosed in your huaca.”4 The distinction between representation and embodiment that Span‑ ish priests wanted to introduce to the Andean world drew on long-­ standing European theological disputes about images and their worship. Priests and some scholars argued over whether pictures or statues possessed a “magical quality”—that is, whether an object contained unusual powers by virtue of its own properties.5 In the first Christian millennium, this discussion centered on the Bible’s first commandment and the question of whether believers were allowed to fabricate images of God, Jesus, the apostles, and saints and to venerate them.6 During the Reformation and the Counter-­Reformation, the discussion about representation and embodiment took two different directions. On the one hand, it shifted toward the nature of the Eucharist and the Catholic concept of transubstantiation. On the other hand, Protestants criticized the veneration of saints as undermining the role of Christ as the sole mediator between God and his people.7 That the distinction between representation and embodiment had been a major point of contention in the later sixteenth century between Protestant and Catholic popular beliefs (often supported by bishops and priests) was crucial in sharpening its impact on the Andes. The twenty-­fifth session of the Council of Trent refuted the Calvinist allegation that Catholics worshipped pictures as gods. Rather, pictures represented Christ or the saints.8 This European ruling made its way into the Andes and ultimately into the decrees of the Third Council of Lima.9 However, introducing the distinction between representation and embodiment into the Andes in the times hereafter was not as simple as the model sermon

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quoted above suggests.10 Spanish scholars alleged that the Quechua and Aymara languages presented a problem because they lacked a proper word for representation. Santo Tomás and, later, González Holguín translated unancha as “any sign, banner, insignia, or coat of arms” and rickchhay as “color, or fabrication with anything of a face, or picture, or figure.”11 Thus, according to González Holguín, the Quechua term rickchhay referred to the process of making an image without specifying the nature of that image. Later, in Bertonio’s 1612 Aymara dictionary, imasena or unancha was “image”; “figure” was ahano or ullinaca, further elaborated (to the bafflement of modern readers) as “making a figure of an angel or a demon, or taking it from an angel or a demon.”12 However, in the translation of the Third Catechism—and specifically in its nineteenth sermon, which treated representation at length— none of these Quechua or Aymara words were used to describe this notion.13 Instead, Blas Valera, Diez de Betanzos, and Ludovico Bertonio, who likely were responsible for the document’s final version, took the Spanish word ymagen (image) into the Quechua and Aymara text. This linguistic quandary underscores Catholics’ extreme difficulty in explaining to Andeans how an image represents something else. To make Andeans understand that wooden painted saints represented entities that were far removed from this earth and that addressed an entity at an even greater remove, God, Spaniards availed themselves of a metaphor: seeing the representation of a saint should be understood as similar to “kiss[ing] the ring of the corregidor, which is like venerating the king.”14 It is questionable, however, whether indigenous countrymen who listened to this sermon ever had the pleasure of kissing a corregidor’s ring or were aware, if they did, that they were with that act venerating a king in a remote country—one whose location they probably did not know. Though scholars have not yet investigated how concepts of geography among indigenous peoples changed beyond Andean concepts of the organization of socioeconomic space of their ayllus during the colonial period, they likely did not have a clear image of lands beyond the boundaries of former Tawantinsuyo.15 Since Spaniards used one incomprehensible concept to explain another, it is no wonder that their efforts to distinguish between representation and embodiment ultimately proved futile. As will be shown, the indigenous assimilation of saints obeyed an Andean logic, not the idiosyncrasies of Catholic theology. Jesuits remained convinced of the need to refute hechizeros, whom they viewed almost as semi-­crypto-­Protestants. Soon after the sermon’s publication, missionaries of the Society instructed Andean Christians in Cuzco and

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in the central highlands on how to correctly define the relationship between saint figures and their mighty powers. In 1600 Gregorio de Cisneros (1558–1611), an always talkative Jesuit, exclaimed with a dissatisfaction bordering on despair that upon entering a village halfway between Cuzco and Huamanga he and his fellow brethren had found no one who could properly distinguish between representation and the materialization of the holy. He was upset and indirectly blamed the Franciscan friars for their negligent indoctrination.16

On Andean and Inca notions of representation To this day, historians debate whether Andean or Inca cultures had a concept of representation in the sense of the European distinction between a concrete sign and an abstract signified.17 To those engaged in this debate, its presence would prove that Andean worldviews were not “magical.” Such a worldview, or a magical concept of an image, generally suggests that an image or object draws on a power that is, in fact, not separate from the object itself.18 Since earliest times, Peruvian chroniclers reported instances and events that Catholics were tempted to deem Inca representations of something else. Sarmiento was convinced that the image in the Qoricancha “represented” lightning. Diez de Betanzos pointed to the little statues of themselves fabricated by the ruling Incas, suggesting that the figures represented the persons. In Inca times, each Inca lineage buried a little statue (whose exact nature is still unclear) in the Qoricancha.19 But did these huauquis, Polo de Ondegardo’s technical term for these figurines, simply represent an Inca, or did they also contain traces of his virtue and power? Diez de Betanzos was also convinced that the Qoricancha owned a statue that was worshipped “in place” of the Sun.20 Archaeological finds give evidence of little statues of Inca, Wari, and Nazca origin, among others. Those cultures also treasured figurines that were dressed and adorned with feathers. During Inca times, female figurines were often involved in the sacrifices of young maidens on snowcapped mountains, performed when loyalty to the new Inca was demonstrated from those in the peripheries of his empire. What the historian must ask is, did these figures “only” represent powers that did not belong to the object? Or did the object itself also embody these powers? In the case of conopas, yllas, and other particular stones, the powers of that which was represented were also implicit in the object. For example, commentaries by religious special-

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ists preserved in seventeenth-­century visitation records suggest that an ylla or conopa in the shape of a corncob made the maize flourish when it was buried in the fields.21 Inca Orcon, a son of Viracocha Inca Yupanqui, was said to have taken the statue of Mancocapac into the battle against the Collas.22 He hoped that when this statue was beheld (by him or by his enemies), the luck of his predecessors would return. Furthermore, Incas destroyed foreign huacas on the assumption that this destruction would disempower them. All of these instances suggest that the Andean conception of representation did not obey the simple dichotomy found in Catholicism. Cristóbal de Molina and Felipe Guaman Poma de Ayala deliver the keys to understanding the native Andean concept of representation. Molina referred to a prayer to Viracocha in which the question was posed: “Where are you, inside or outside?”23 The prayer did not contain the answer. Yet obviously the duality of inside and outside, hanan and hurin, high and low, black and white, which was pervasive in the Inca and Andean world, explains the Andean concept of the relationship between representation and embodiment.24 The Andean world did not perceive this pair as mutually exclusive opposites; likewise, objects represented and embodied at the same time.25 In this world, the Catholic conceptual nightmare induced by Reformation iconophobia was difficult to comprehend. In fact, many Andeans never did. Until the mid-­seventeenth century, Catholics continued to voice their frustrations over erroneous Andean assimilations. Avendaño, for example, exclaimed that it did not matter if the statue of a saint broke, since it did not mean that the godly powers were gone.26 In his sermon given a week after the Epiphany (January 6), Francisco de Ávila explained how to understand the dove as a symbol of the Holy Spirit and warned, “And in no way when you see a dove or the lamb in the painted images say that the Christians adore those; those figures are only used to make the Gospel understood. But, if you say this dove represents the Holy Spirit, and this lamb Jesus Christ, and I want to worship these representations, then do it. But don’t [worship] this particular dove, or that [specific] lamb. This would be a great sin.”27 And he added, repeating an Andean argument: But padre, don’t you Christians also call on Saint Mary, Saint Peter, Saint Francis, and other saints? If this is so, why can’t we do the same with our progenitors [mallquis]? I tell you: listen carefully. You are right if you say Christians do that. But it is not that one says to the

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saint, Señor, give me health, because the saint has no force or power to do so, but we worship the saint and beg him to ask God that he take us into his grace, because God is the one who gives. You, however, don’t do it like that. In past times you said: My grandma or my father causes my sickness, and you worship him that he provides health. That is a great error for two reasons: First, because you adore someone who is in hell with the demon. Second, you ask him for health although he lacks the power to give it.28

However, in 1663, Hernando Chaupij Loraz Chaupi of San Francisco de Mangas and many other religious specialists in the central and southern Andes continued to worship their mallquis in hope for fertility.29 While evangelization advanced, religious specialists voiced even more ways to resist Catholic ideas than simply saying, “You do the same.” Other nameless religious specialists adopted Catholic theological discourse and informed Jesuits that they would not worship but would bless their mountains and pay them respect: respect for the fact that their rivers gave them fish, and their acres maize.30 Obviously, religious specialists knew how to evade theological pettifoggery by putting it to their own use. Ávila’s and similar admonitions filled the pages of Catholics’ books but often remained theory. One reason why Andean people disregarded this theological distinction, or why Andean religious specialists reversed the argument and turned it against Catholics, must be seen in the fact that in a missionary’s everyday life, and thus in practice, Catholics in the New World also disregarded the careful distinction drawn by theologians and scholars between representation and embodiment. The discrepancy between theory and practice evolved wider in the Catholic than in the Andean world. In 1600, for example, the friars did not respond theologically to the hechizeros who disregarded the distinction between representation and embodiment. Instead, they made the religious specialists kneel down in front of a monstrance.31 Religious specialists were obviously to understand what Catholic theology was all about by focusing on the higher might enclosed in the Eucharist. In the high plains of the Andes, missionaries handled the cross, the saints, Saint Ignatius’s handwriting, medallions, and other Catholic objects as if they by their own virtue were full of power. These Catholic objects disclosed, conquered, and exorcised demons; except for exorcism, they did what religious specialists claimed their huacas could do. In the end, a Catholicism spread through the Andes that drew heavily on manifestations, sym-

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bols, miracles, and rituals. Had José de Arriaga not said that gestures had a deep impact on indigenous people?32 When missionaries gestured or trusted in the might of these Catholic objects, they often forgot to explain to indigenous people that these objects’ qualities were signs of God’s overflowing powers.33 Yet in the end, this was a distinction without a difference, observed by no missionary in his strenuous life. Given the emphasis on the Virgin Mary, the saints, and the Eucharist, God was almost forgotten in Peruvian evangelization campaigns.34 God was buried in sermons. In baroque altars, he was relegated to the highest echelons of the golden structures, while space in the front—the preeminent position—was left to the Virgin Mary and the host. The religious specialists’ allegations that Catholics worshipped their saints as embodied powers did, in fact, bear more truth than Catholics wanted to admit. Thus, when Rodrigo de Cabredo in 1600 declared that a false Christian works like the devil’s minister—and thus like a pagan—to express his annoyance at some indigenous people, he could have been speaking of many Catholic priests in the Andes as well.35

Catholic s deviations: Exorcising the Andes In the seventeenth century, magnets were much-­admired natural objects. Since Pliny’s time, they had garnered considerable attention in treatises on natural philosophy and magic. In Peru, scholars, erudite magicians, and folk healers alike speculated about the properties of attraction of the magnet, or piedra iman.36 Female ritual specialists in Lima who were persecuted as hechizeras used the stone in their recipes against lovesickness.37 For the Augustinian Ramos Gavilán, however, the magnet was an allegory for demons. He wrapped in flowery language what became a standard technique in conversions: attracting and expelling demons by means of exorcism. According to Ramos Gavilán, The glorious San Isidore [of Seville] left us a metaphor [to understand the workings of the demon] about the diamond and the magnet using its properties to attract iron. The saintly man said both [the diamond and the magnet stone] attract the iron but with the difference that if the diamond touches the magnet, the magnet loses its power to attract iron, since the diamond developed its full virtue. Therefore, says the saintly man, we have to take Christ our Lord or the Virgin Mary, his mother, as the diamond. As magnet stone we have to take the opposite, which is the demon or the world, because both sides have virtue

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to attract souls. The world attracts to delight and contentedness. The demon attracts to hell and torment. In this manner, the iron is the hieroglyph of mankind for the soul that wanders between God and the Demon.38

Other missionaries believed Ramos Gavilán’s well-­intended but confusing metaphor and thought that symbols of Christ and the Christian tradition attracted souls, and simultaneously attracted and expelled the demons.39 In many instances, Augustinians, Franciscans, the secular clergy, and Jesuits exorcised the Andeans, particularly hechizeros.40 In 1668, the Quito bishop Peña Montenegro explicitly spelled out the means of exorcisms.41 Yet the methods varied. In an image from 1767 of indigenous people surrounding Our Lady of Cocharcas (where the first miracle had occurred in 1598), a priest is shown exorcizing an indigenous woman with holy water as a little demon takes off from her womb. Three scenes may allude in particular to religious specialists. Next to the priest who is exorcising a demon from an indigenous or mestizo woman, a second woman is shown sitting in front of her mesa. A third person crawls on all fours with the devil on his back. In this splendid small church perched between mountains, halfway between Ampay and Huamanga, the Virgin Mary was considered potent against the attractions of demons and idolatry.42 Most of the time, it is simply said in Catholic reports that the missionary or priest used the cross and other devices to liberate an indigenous person from the grip of the demon.43 The priests followed Girolamo Menghi’s Compendio dell’ arte essorcistica (1576), which enjoyed wide distribution in colonial libraries.44 In the Andean world, the object that contained the greatest powers to both repel the demons and induce conversion was the cross.45 According to Avendaño, the cross had worked the earliest miracles in South America. Three of them—the Cruz de Carabuco, the Cruz de Santa Cruz de la Sierra, and the Cruz de Pachacamac—deserved special mention for defeating demons.46 Owing to these testimonies and to Johannes Chrysostomus, Avendaño was convinced that the demon feared the cross. Therefore, he suggested that when an Indian felt lured by the demon, he or she should immediately make a sign of a cross overtly or in his or her mind.47 Avendaño was not alone in this conviction. All orders and many lay priests considered the cross a prime instrument for exorcisms and conversions.48 Jesuits, showing their usual love for telling semimiraculous stories, again provide the best insights into the employment of the

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cross by their brethren all over the country. In one case in 1575, a Jesuit took a crucifix on his search for the land of gold, Paititi, in the Amazon regions. Upon encountering ferocious Indians, and not the mythical land of gold, the figure of Christ on the cross averted his eyes. Allegedly, the hechizeros of that region were shocked and converted to Christianity instantaneously. In other areas, crosses opened the mouths of indigenous people possessed by a demon. An indigenous woman, for example, was so heavily burdened by her sin and her encounter with a demon that merely touching “the True Cross” led her to confess. The ending of the story is a familiar one: the woman was healed and became a good Christian.49 In 1606, a peasant from Tucumán attempted to burn a cross that Jesuits had once erected on his field. When he set it on fire along with some other wood, the holy object remained unscathed. Around the same time, Juan de Vivero was busy erecting crosses on indigenous fields in the place of conopas or yllas, which Andeans buried in the land they cultivated in hope of fertility. His intention, obviously, was to replace an Andean custom with a Catholic one. In 1608, another Jesuit was convinced that the cross that an Indian woman had put on her field averted a plague of locusts. Her neighbor, who faced the same problem and whose fields were already under attack by the voracious insects, followed her approach and erected a cross. According to the Jesuit’s report, “One grasshopper immediately left the field. It felt the Cross’s superior power.”50 Sometimes, the holy object fought against a stone—or rather, Christ and God contended against a huaca. In 1608, a stone crumbled in Cuzco when confronted with the superior might of the cross.51 Thus, if the Jesuits’ reports are to be believed, crosses were employed both for exorcisms and conversions. Moreover, the cross’s inherent powers were used “to exorcize” demons from the Andean landscapes. The Andes mountains must have been densely populated with crosses in the colonial era. In various regions, indigenous people obviously began to rely on those powers that were allegedly stored in the cross. For example, a baptized indigenous woman used a cross as a protective device against an unbaptized Indian man who was trying to rape her.52 The upright Jesuit Rodrigo de Cabredo reported of a situation in which powerful signs were much more powerful than any theology. In his carta annua, he reported the case of an old Indian in a region near the Mojos whom a soldier by the name of Joán Flores had already met in the second half of the sixteenth century.53 This Indian possessed a miraculous cross, which he had found on a battlefield that had seen the victory of Spanish conquistadors. Seeing the number of dead on

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the Indian side, the man reasoned that this object possessed some exceptional virtues; he therefore took the cross to his house and made it part of his conversations with a demon (which we should probably identify with the huaca that his ayllu had worshipped). Somehow, the old Indian found out that it could expel his demon, which was driven away on every appearance. Upon hearing this story, Joán Flores was intrigued and eager to give the cross’s virtue a try. The soldier lifted the cross with his hands and became nauseous. Astonished and at a loss, Flores resorted to baptizing the cross’s new owner with holy water. The Indian had not seen a Catholic priest for more than forty years, and even though he had adopted the wonder-­working sign, he had not renounced his Andean customs and convictions. For the baptismal ritual, the old man advised Flores to take the water from the river behind his hamlet, which contained better qualities than what the Catholic priest transported in his “bucket.” At this point, the report lapses into a brief disquisition on the superior properties of holy water. By reporting this “authentic” story,54 it seems that Cabredo believed that the virtues that inhered in the cross or occasionally descended into it trumped the distinction made in Jesuit preaching between representation and embodiment of powers. In the second half of the seventeenth century, the vigorous Catholic discourse about representation versus embodiment waned. Jesuits realized that the Andean notion of the holy was incompatible with a Catholic worldview that separated the preter- and supernatural spheres from the natural one. The Andean concept of the holy required a natural object. In those Andean rituals, coca, maize, colored powders, stones, and yllas were all reported to be still considered powerful objects in their own right. But while the discourse on representation and embodiment continued to be articulated in handbooks for priests, the Catholic clergy—and especially the Jesuits—tailored other powerful Christian objects to the clientele they were dealing with: crosses and statues for infidel Indians; Saint Ignatius for already baptized Indians, mestizos, and Creoles; relics, Saint Ignatius, and the saints, but also agnus dei amulets for the members of the Society of Jesus; and relics for Creoles. Throughout the seventeenth century, Jesuits fostered the belief in powerful objects and images.

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Catholic deviations: Saint Ignatius’s handwriting, agnus dei, and other powerful Catholic objects Saint Ignatius, the founder and patron of the Society of Jesus, was one of the powerful entities that were propagated to make life and evangelization on the South American plains easier. In 1606 in Panama, which then still belonged to the viceroyalty of Peru, two Jesuits came down with a high fever after having saved many souls from “demons’ claws.”55 Upon beholding an image of Saint Ignatius and offering fervent prayers to God, they were healed. In 1608 in Cilca (modern-­day Quilca), near Lima, an indigenous man suffered from glaucoma. He chanced to look at a depiction of Saint Ignatius, and even though he did not know who this holy man was, his ailment disappeared.56 A Creole woman in Santiago de Chile was in severe pain from ulcers, so she prayed to Saint Ignatius and immediately recovered.57 In 1603 in Tucumán, people could borrow Saint Ignatius’s images from the Jesuit colegio so that they might heal at home, as if they were borrowing books from a library. In 1609 in Santa Cruz de la Sierra, a noblewoman suffered from problems in her knees, a disability that prevented her from walking. After touching a relic of a piece of Saint Ignatius’s autograph, she was able to move again. She rendered thanks with a donation to the saint’s altar.58 One year later, Ignatius’s handwriting worked yet another, but certainly not the last, miracle. In Cuzco, a girl who had served in the household of a curaca fell down a steep mountain. She survived because she called on the name of Jesus Christ. Recovery from her injuries was slow, but when she finally touched the autograph of Saint Ignatius, her health and energy were fully restored.59 In the seventeenth century, Jesuits were hesitant to report miracles among indigenous people that were associated with a particular statue. According to a strict understanding of theology, those miracles happened supernaturally. Yet Ávila began to suggest that native South Americans should treat those statues as if they had inherent powers.60 Without much theoretical reflection and in the context of indoctrination in everyday practice, Augustinians and Franciscans had already begun fostering this idea sixty years earlier. In 1588, the statue of Our Lady of Copacabana worked its first miracle. Augustinians and Franciscans, in particular, considered the Lady of Copacabana to be more than a painted pole. The Augustinian chronicler Ramos Gavilán allowed the artist who had crafted the Copacabana Virgin, a shy mestizo filled with

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self-­doubt, to tell his own, almost heartbreaking story.61 Other artists had attacked Don Francisco Tito Yupanque’s artistry from the beginning as he attempted to carve a statue of the Virgin Mary. They derided him for his incompetence, and the statue for her coarse face. Although the potential buyers rejected this rather unconventional, if not inelegant, piece of art, and asked for one from Spain, the statue finally came to exhibit its genuine properties. After Yupanque deposited the statue with Fray Francisco Navarrete, the Franciscan monk observed that rays radiated from its face. This was its first miracle. The Omasuyus of Copacabana became eager to purchase this unusual piece of art. Since that time, people were healed when they prayed to the Virgin Mary in her Copacabana manifestation. The southeastern tip of Lake Titicaca, near the Island of the Sun and the Island of the Moon, was transformed into the greatest pilgrimage site in the southern Andes. Indigenous people, mestizos, and erudite Catholics alike understood the statue of the Lady of Copacabana as incorporating some supernatural powers, much as did those of the Señor de los Temblores and other saints.62 In the end, the Augustinians and the archbishop of Charcas did little to uphold the distinction between representation and embodiment. Despite the many protectors and the powerful weapons in their hands, Jesuits from the sixteenth to the seventeenth century thought they could become the victims of hechizeros and their demons. Since the time of José de Acosta’s Historia moral y natural de las Indias, hechizeros in Chachapoyas were believed to be able to predict the exact hour of a person’s death by calibrating the amount of poison they used.63 To protect themselves against this and similar threats, Jesuits took recourse in an analogous belief in powers that were beyond nature—trusting in supernatural powers.64 Right from the beginning of their missionary activities, they asked Rome and Seville for protective devices against sorcery: agnus dei amulets. In Europe, agnus dei talismans were believed to offer protection against sorcery. Consequently, the Peruvian church allowed its priests and missionaries to carry these wax disks imprinted with the figure of a lamb.65 Since the white lamb was a symbol for Christ, the use of color was forbidden. The demand did not come from a tiny minority, if we can judge from the supply: the Peruvian Jesuits received several chests of the talismans from Spain.66 How precisely Jesuits employed these little lambs in their everyday lives or in their encounters with religious specialists during the seventeenth century remains unknown. Since depictions of the Lamb of God

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are no more numerous in Peru’s baroque churches than one might expect—notwithstanding the particular appeal that agnus dei might have in an agrarian society like Peru—the devices were probably used mainly in private and were not intended for public display.67

The consumption of relic s in Creole society For a considerable time, Peruvian Creole piety maintained its difference from the Catholicism of recently converted Indians, remaining quite close to its Hispanic origins. In Creole society, as in Spain, powerful objects accompanied the rhythms of life. Spaniards in Peru and Creoles used relics as supernatural devices to defend against the many hardships that could befall a premodern city. When Lima, Cuzco, and Arequipa were struck by an epidemic or hit by an earthquake (as happened with unfortunate frequency), the various orders took out relics and saints from their churches and prayed for God’s grace.68 Episcopal authorities did much the same in Rome and Milan when facing diseases, and in Lisbon when earth tremors occurred.69 When the volcano Omate near Moquegua erupted in 1600, Jesuits immediately took a cross, pelted themselves with stones, and took the relics and saintly statues out of the colegio to go on a procession—but the rain of ashes did not cease.70 Here, as elsewhere, Jesuits and Augustinians interpreted hardship as God’s punishment for the lax morality of the Peruvians. Thus, Peru’s Creole society did not diverge markedly from Spanish practices and beliefs regarding devotion to Christ, Mary, and the saints. Spaniards and Creoles believed in the efficacy of amulets, talismans, and pictures that encapsulated the powers of these divine and quasi-­ divine entities.71 Part of Peruvian Spanish and Creole devotion involved little talismans—perhaps the most apt term for those silver-­framed images of Christ, Mary, and saints that could be hung around the neck and that first appeared in the late seventeenth and early eighteenth centuries.72 (The Museo Murillo in La Paz and the Collection Enrico Poli in Lima house beautiful examples.)73 Narratives about Creoles’ pilgrimages to the shrines of the new “Creole” saints—Saint Rose, Toribio de Mogrovejo, and San Martín de Porres—often involved such objects.74 The witnesses in the canonization of San Martín de Porres, for example, reported how hundreds of people visited the body of the deceased saint. They were eager to strike their amulets or medallions on the cloth of the friar. These little objects, so they hoped, would become charged with his healing aura.75 As the French traveler Amédée Frézier

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(1682–1773) indignantly observed in the late eighteenth century, Lima was an unusually pious place.76 Lima’s Creole, mulatto, and Spanish ritual specialists were probably indignant. At the beginning of a consultation, they first made their clients lay aside the rosary, the cross, or any other Christian amulet.77 It was believed that these Christian talismans inhibited the ritual specialists’ arts.78 The Andean belief in powerful stones seems not very different from this widespread trust in the supernatural powers of special objects. But the concepts underpinning these beliefs reveal how utterly different they in fact were. In Peru, carrying a relic was the prerogative of Creole society’s upper classes. They were never handed out to indigenous people.79 A relic was a treasure; some of them could be carried as pendants (see figure 5.1). The trade in relics and objects of devotion was well established in the Atlantic world. In 1661, the Jesuits in Lima made a list of all the relics belonging to their colegio of San Pablo.80 In total, they housed some one hundred bones of saints or fragments of holy places. Their collection included pieces of the True Cross, a star from the roof of the house of Loreto, and a large number of bones belonging to San Simón, San Ignacio de Loyola, San Francisco Xavier, San Urso, Francisco Suarez, Francisco de Borja, three apostles, and “holy” people from Peru like Juan de Ávila and Alonso Rodríguez.81 In 1583, the Third Council of Lima reminded members of the church to use only those relics that had been officially licensed.82 Restrictions on carrying these sacred items were introduced. Nevertheless, priests, friars, and apparently even Spanish and Creole laypeople were allowed to bear them. Other relics, the larger pieces, were exhibited in the churches of Lima, Cuzco, and Ayacucho. Inventories of Jesuit churches (for example, the Colegio de la Transfiguración in Cuzco) show that they were literally crowded with these holy objects.83 In 1661, the Jesuits took their relics in a procession through the city so that “the people could give them the proper veneration they merited.”84 The people should pray an “Our Father” and an “Ave Maria” in front of these relics. In fact, the Jesuit collection already exceeded those of other orders. And, despite the nearly one hundred holy remnants kept in Lima’s San Pablo colegio alone, in the late seventeenth century the Jesuit Alonso Rodríguez was convinced that the Jesuits lacked relics: he believed that even more such objects were required for their “spiritual defense.”85 Into the late eighteenth century, bishops and archbishops in Peru granted approval for new shiploads of relics.86 The Creole lands should be as holy as the European motherland. It simply required admonition sometimes on

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Figure 5.1. Relics in the sacristy of the church La Compañía, Lima, Peru.

how to behave in church and what to believe.87 According to Antonio de la Calancha, Peru would already be accounted the holiest land on earth were it not for its indigenous people. Only the small churches in the countryside lacked relics. Thus, in its religious culture, colonial Peru was a land of two Catholic “republics”: one of Creoles and the other of indigenous people.88 In fact, as I will now argue, over the course of the early modern era, Peru was transformed into a country containing three different “republics”: Creole Catholic, Andean-­Christian, and properly Andean.89 Whereas Catholicism united Creole society and was its foundation, it began to split the indigenous society. The emergence of a third “republic,” the properly Andean one, can best be understood by investigating how some religious specialists (as opposed to commoners) reacted to Jesuit distributions of images of saints and medallions. This diffusion of Catholic objects threatened the Andean world much more fundamen-

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tally than did invocations of saints or theorizing about the Christian God. Religious specialists perceived Catholic objects as having powers equal to those of Andean holy objects. To preserve what was threatened, religious specialists reluctantly created what we can call the third “republic” within colonial Peru.

Making God’s powers tangible, resisting Catholic objects, and the principle of exclusion When Villagómez advised his visitators in 1649 to take along rosaries, images of saints, and catechisms on their visitation campaigns, he was not innovating. Rather, he was following a Jesuit practice that the order had employed for many years in the provinces and missions, though with mixed success. In 1588, sixty years prior to Villagómez, José de Acosta had argued for the need to supplant indigenous rituals with Christian ones. Therefore, he suggested distributing “holy water, pictures, rosaries, consecrated items, and candles.”90 Doing so should extirpate idolatry from the hearts of the indigenous people. Acosta was familiar with the challenges of his enterprise. He admonished his fellow missionaries: “One has to pay great attention to replace pernicious rituals with beneficial ones, and erase one ceremony with another one.” He added, “In your sermons in front of the people, you have to praise all these practices so that new Christian symbols replace old superstitions. Once they are occupied with better and more decent rituals, they will denounce the old superstitions of their sect from their hands and hearts.”91 Even though Acosta fostered a distrust in the idolatries of the common people, and knew that distributing tangible items with Christian symbols to indigenous people was likely to cause misunderstandings about the proper distinction between representation and embodiment, he was willing to take the risk. His approval of images of saints grew out of his Spanish heritage. Peruvian Jesuits followed Acosta’s advice. In 1603, Lucan Dario, from his missionary outpost in Cordova in Tucumán, asked his fellow Jesuits in Rome for a chest containing “images of the angels of Jesus and those papers that bear the figures of the commandments, articles, and other things of devotion.”92 It is not known whether this particular chest was ever packed and sent to Tucumán, but other trunks full of devotional objects successfully accompanied members of the Society on their missions. As Acosta had wanted, Peruvian Jesuits handed out “estampas, medallas y rosarios” to the new converts.93 One of Guaman Poma de

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Ayala’s pictures shows a scene in which a Jesuit hands out devotional objects during a confession. He is giving a rosary to the kneeling indigenous person in front of him. In his left hand he also holds a string carrying hearts, bearing engravings of a cross.94 These objects were awarded to those who knew basic doctrines, Arriaga said.95 Well into the seventeenth century, Jesuits were famous for being the order that distributed rewards. José de Arriaga reported how he staffed the priest of Santo Domingo de Ocros in Cajatambo, Hernández Príncipe, with rosaries.96 As late as 1751, the Indians who came to be classified as Mojos apparently asked for a relic or medallion of Saint Ignatius.97 Not every indigenous person was happy to receive the Jesuits’ gifts, however. The religious specialists tended to mistrust them deeply and resisted the intrusion of Catholic objects into their ayllus and—as we will see later—into their mesas. Diego Francisco Altamirano (1625–1715) recalled in his unpublished Historia de la provincia del Perú (1710) the fierce struggles of his predecessors against hechizeros.98 In one instance in the late sixteenth century, Gregorio de Cisneros took the confession of an hechizero on a mission between Cuzco and Ayacucho.99 This unnamed hechizero had attempted to heal a woman—ineffectively, as it turned out. After washing the woman in herbal baths, he had rubbed her body with maize and, to the horror of the Jesuit, sacrificed her rosary to an unnamed huaca. Altamirano recounted another anecdote in which Catholic objects had been destroyed: “Another minister of the devil used to take away from the Christians images of saints and lockets and rosaries which they [the Indians] had received from our missionaries, and he later made them [the Indians] go to a mountain slope, which was arduous to climb. They had to use their hands and put the rosaries in their mouths to reach the top. There, they sacrificed the objects to the demon.” Yet a third story involving the sacrifice of Catholic holy items featured an hechizero who had been “justly” pushed off a mountain while he worshipped a huaca. Having suffered a broken leg and so, finally, having realized his errors, in great remorse he asked for confession. More to the point here, this religious specialist was also guilty of having offered the rosary to his huaca, for reasons not spelled out by Altamirano. The hechizero may have thought that he was offering his huaca a valuable and powerful item, as was standard practice, or he may have specifically intended the gift of the rosary to beg pardon from his huaca or to forestall the conversion of his people to Catholicism. As Guaman Poma reported, in one instance, huacas helped religious specialists to get rid of rosaries. Here again, we see that the struggle over

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rosaries between an hechizero and a Catholic priest or missionary was viewed not as a minor distraction but as crucial. Whatever their motives, their actions show that some religious specialists considered Catholic objects to be powerful in themselves (and not just representations). They feared their ability to attract believers, and in sacrificing them, they drew a sharp distinction. Obviously, they believed that what was good for the Spaniards was not good for the Andeans. The already known response voiced by Taki Onkoy religious specialists and in actions by nameless seventeenth-­century religious specialists, now suggested cultural separation within the world of devotional objects: Catholic and Andean objects should inhabit different worlds,100 and the Andean world should stay clear of Catholicism’s (powerful) objects. Ancient Andean cultures such as the Moche and Nazca had already taken this same approach in distinguishing between friends and enemies, between their own and foreign huacas, between forasteros (foreigners) and members of an ayllu.101 But unlike in pre-­ Columbian times, when coexistence of different cults was possible, under Spanish colonialism this vision of coexistence could only withdraw into clandestinity and thus into the last bastion of Andean cultural logic: into Andean ritual performances, through the hand of Andean religious specialists. This was the answer to which many religious specialists turned when they realized that their suggestion that indigenous people and Spaniards should live in “two worlds” divided by religion found no welcome among Catholics. To appreciate where many religious specialists stood in an ever-­ changing world, and before the motives behind religious specialists’ distrust in Catholic objects can be discussed from the perspective of Andean practices and notions, we have to survey the basic premises of the evolving Andean-­Christian “republic.” This middle “republic” should not be confused with mestizo culture; one might call it a playground for mestizaje or mélange.102 Throughout, it should be kept in mind that until the late seventeenth century, even this middle “republic” was shaped not by Catholic logic, but by an Andean one, visible in the Andean notion of embodiment of specific powers and in the principle of juxtapositioning.103 In some instances we can even capture that some religious specialists began to advise the people on how to assimilate to Christianity. Curiously—and again, Jesuits captured this in Julí—religious specialists suggested a means for assimilations among common people. Jesuits had identified hechizeros as the teachers of the Andean world. They were correct.

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Allowing the commoners to assimil ate saints to huacas: A response by religious specialists According to the 1603 carta annua, Julí’s religious specialists suggested that their people should see Tunupa in Christ, or worship either Tunupa or Christ, depending on the specific situation. Religious specialists thus opted for inclusion in the form of juxtaposition when faced with Catholic dominance. This argument, of course, took Jesuits by surprise. Had they not fully identified Tunupa with Saint Bartholomew or Saint Thomas (as we saw in chapter 1)? Religious specialists modified the Jesuit position, arguing that Christ should be taken as Tunupa.104 Religious specialists thus suggested to their fellow Andeans to assimilate Christ to their indigenous god.105 Thus the alternative to the exclusive either/or answer that many religious specialists gave to Catholicism’s intrusion into their world, and to which we turn in more detail in a moment, was an inclusive one following the form of juxtaposition—and it, too, was no colonial invention. It can be found among the priests and artists in the service of the Chavín culture (ca. 900– 200 B.C.E) and was later copied by the Tiwanaku (ca. 300–1100 C.E.) and the Incas, among others. Those cultures adopted features from other cultures for various reasons. Inclusion was one way to demonstrate superior powers: similarities and other kinds of adaptations would attract believers or followers, whether religious or political. The Inca Tawantinsuyo probably best exemplifies the belief in South America that integration was necessary for a society’s well-­being and for the survival of the “whole world.” Inclusion was thus essential to the Andean and Inca world. It was exactly this move to assimilation that would long shape indigenous people’s attitude toward Catholic saints. They likened the many saints to their Andean huacas and treated them accordingly. Therefore, Catholics saw themselves as forced to insist on the distinction between representation and embodiment until the second half of the seventeenth century. Only then did Catholics involuntarily become more tolerant of minor versions of “false assimilations” of saints and the Christian God, even if it continued to trouble Catholics.106 In the process of assimilating saints and Christian rituals, the list of saints grew longer in the Andean world than in Europe. In the Catholic missions, the Virgin Mary in her many manifestations was the primary focus of saint worship. She was followed (in the hierarchy devised by Pseudo-­Dionysius) by the archangel Michael, San Gabriel, San Raphael, John the Baptist, the apostles Saint Paul and Saint Peter, Santiago, Saint Bartholomew, Saint Luke, Saint Mark, the “innocent saints,” Saint

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Lawrence, Saint Fabian, Saint Sebastian, the martyrs, Saint Gregorio, Saint Bernard, Saint Martin, and the founders of orders, Saint Anthony and Saint Dominic. The list ended with two holy women, Saint Mary Magdalena and Saint Anastasia.107 The Confessionario instructed Indians to ask these saints to intercede on the sinner’s behalf for liberation from death, the punishments of hell, and diabolical powers. It did not explicitly recommend that they should be called on in times of sickness. Soon, the saints’ wooden statues adorned the altars of mestizo-­baroque churches. Pious believers and Jesuits, Augustinians, Franciscans, and Dominicans authored apologetic histories of new Andean miracle-­working saints, who then became saints of the indigenous people: Our Lady of Cocharcas, Nuestra Señora de Copacabana, the Virgen de Cayma, the Virgen de Pomata, and the Virgen de Guadalupe de Pacasmayo, among others. Those were mainly saints to those in the southern Andes, normally with a local following, but sometimes drawing from farther away when they demonstrated their powers by miraculously saving individuals, such as an Indian boy who fell from a church balustrade, or an Andean child who almost drowned.108 Some cults of the Virgin were quite old. The devotion to the Virgin of Copacabana began in 1588, and that to the Lady of Cocharcas was initiated in 1598 by the Jesuits. The Virgin of Pomata was perhaps revered as early as 1597. Teresa Gisbert believes that already in the seventeenth century, the Jesuit print shop in Julí was fabricating and distributing little images of the Virgin. Jesuit demand for saintly images and rosaries from the early seventeenth century makes this highly plausible. And it was an ongoing activity until the eighteenth century.109 Perhaps seventeenth-­century religious specialists convicted as hechizeros—­ including Maria Gumbituella, Tomás Parinanco, Lorenço Lllaxcayauri, Maria Llaxsa, Francisco Garcia Julcapuma, Pedro Sayao, and Francisco Malqui Guaman—also hoped that their namesakes might rescue them from their prison cells; if so, they hoped in vain.110

Juxtapositions: The creation of the Andean- ­Christian world The indigenous worship of saints became a medley of components drawn from Andean and Catholic rituals, most often ordered by an Andean logic, and by the principles of separation and inclusion in the form of juxtapositions.111 Andeans offered coca leaves, textiles, llamas, and guinea pigs instead of silver, crowns, and gold.112 They began to

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wrap their saints in cloth, a practice known since Inca times; it highlighted that these saints were part of life. Cruz velakuy (the “dressing” of a cross in cloth) or the changing of the saint’s dress prior to Corpus Christi is a typical feature of Peruvian Catholicism to this day. It can be assumed that during colonial times some inhabitants in Cuzco, Arequipa, Santa Cruz de la Sierra, Huamanga, Potosí, Charcas, Chuquiabo, and Cocharcas worshipped saints as replacements of their old Andean sacred guardians. But in the seventeenth century, the worship of saints often coexisted with reverence for huacas. Churches were erected on top of old huacas or adjacent to them, which ironically allowed indigenous people to revere old huacas while attending Mass.113 Augustinians and Jesuits discovered that indigenous people hid their huacas or weavings inside baroque church altars. In the 1560s, the Augustinian Juan Ramiro reported that he spent months searching vainly for a huaca of terrifying repute, Guamansiri, and was greatly relieved when finally an hechizero confessed where it was hidden. He led the astounded Augustinian into the white church in Huamachuco. Behind the main altar a little manta was hidden. The hechizero explained that they simply adored their huaca in the form of a weaving in the altar while the Spaniards worshipped their saints.114 Such juxtapositions of Andean objects and Catholic symbols became a vexing problem debated by Spaniards and Creoles.115 They demonstrate that in the first phases of Catholic influence, assimilations were not conceptual but rather took concrete form. This emphasis on the physical testifies indirectly to the Andean notion of embodiment of powers not in a supernatural entity, but in accessible material objects. In 1621, Arriaga admitted having conducted an “archaeological” search almost two meters beneath a cross. There he found the huaca of Choquechuco.116 He also scolded the priests for allowing their church members to put huacas on top of the racks that were used to carry saints in processions. Even though Arriaga answered with a sharp negative that evangelization could be considered successful when Andean-­ Catholic juxtapositions in cult ran rampant, many priests in everyday life thought differently. But even Arriaga himself welcomed the gift by an indigenous man of a beautifully crafted stone to serve as a stoup.117 There are innumerable examples of seventeenth-­century Andean people combining a Catholic object with an Andean habit, or a Catholic feast with an indigenous one, but this is not the space to analyze all individual idiosyncrasies.118 A few examples will suffice. The Jesuit Diego Francisco Altamirano, for example, described how an exemplary

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indigenous Christian woman buried a small altar in her field so as to ensure its fertility.119 In doing so, she was putting a Catholic spin on the burying of a conopa among crops, a practice described by Guaman Poma and still followed by some campesinos, or peasants, in southern Peru—those who have not converted to strict Protestant evangelism. In another colonial instance, an indigenous woman approached a Jesuit in Julí to ask the friars to hold a mass on behalf of her ayllu’s fields. According to this Jesuit, members of the ayllu offered money for that mass, just as they would compensate a religious specialist for his offerings to a huaca. In another event, a so-­called neophyte, whose task was to help baptize Indians in Julí, used holy water in a non-­Christian manner.120 Jesuits were horrified and performed the baptism anew. Most of these assimilations were not mandated by any authority but grew out of custom, except perhaps for the equation of Christ with Tunupa. At the same time, other members of Andean society did not blend the two cultural horizons, either through juxtapositions or ritualistic adaptations. Instead, they founded altars and made donations and thus had status as exemplary Catholics.121 During the late seventeenth century, the old Inca elite and local Indians liked to be represented as donors on the foreground of Christian images. They all considered themselves “true” Catholics and probably believed in the resurrection and in hell.122

Adapting Catholic symbols to the culture of Andean commoners To create an authentic Catholic world in the Andes, Catholic elites made many steps toward adjusting Catholicism to the indigenous world. Here, mutual adaptations had their share. It will be asked whether there was a special Jesuit language of symbols directed towards hechi­ zeros—one that went beyond the depiction of hell that, as we already have seen, became a standard language of symbolism in the southern Andes, and especially in the eighteenth century. Catholics took advantage of the needs and fears of an agrarian society.123 The colonial calendars transformed saints into powerful patrons for planting and harvesting.124 Confraternities distributed alms and cultivated fields; these efforts were intended ideally to replace the institution of the minka, the Andean form of communal work.125 According to Ávila, a peasant longing for rain should speak a prayer and adore

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no huaca. In his Symbolo cathólico indiano (1598), the Franciscan Luis Jerónimo de Oré indirectly adapted indigenous beliefs in the power of nature. He made God identical with nature, even though, of course, his orthodoxy held nature to be a mirror of God. In Rituale, seu manuale peruanum (1607), Oré, inspired by his Spanish Franciscan predecessor Martín de Castañega, prescribed a procession to call for rain, exorcism against thunderstorm, and a vow against clouds and hail.126 Thanks to this liturgical practice, Franciscans in missions that lay on the borders of the civilized world could walk with indigenous people and in effect speak Latin to those who spoke Patagón, Bagua, Chirino, and Copallín, among other languages, to obtain rain.127 Thus the different orders did, in essence, accommodate indigenous agrarian customs by trying to replace them with Catholic prayers or saintly patrons. In many respects, churches in the southern highlands whose indigenous congregations were large employed a symbolic language that served to attract their interests and then bestow indigenous associations with new Catholic meanings. An artist’s assimilations were often enriched with a didactic purpose. To be sure, it is difficult for a historian to distinguish between uncritical assimilation of an indigenous or mestizo artist and a directed program reflecting the interest of another party. Acosta advised his readers to replace Andean customs with Christian symbols, and Arriaga allowed crafted Andean stones to be transformed into stoups.128 It remained an unwritten law, however, to which symbols and objects this directed assimilation could extend. As in the case of the toad examined later, Catholic artistic conventions were tailored to an indigenous horizon, and artistic expression might directly allude to hechizeros. In the Andes, Jesuits’ trust in the inherent symbolism of the world was as pervasive as the meaning given to objects by indigenous people. Jesuits viewed the whole world as a hieroglyph.129 In Filippo Picinelli’s famous 1654 book Mondo simbólico, each fork, each chalice, each bell, the granadilla, the lion, and many other objects acquired the status of a symbol representing God’s omnipotence.130 More loosely, Peruvian Franciscans fostered the same perspective. The most prominent application of this ubiquitous symbolism to the indigenous world is the astonishment of early modern scholars about the passion fruit, which was seen as a symbol for the passion of Christ.131 Many other examples in which Christian arts borrowed typical Andean pictorial language but transformed its Andean meaning have received less attention, including the juxtaposition of gold and silver in baroque altars.132 In the

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Andean and Inca world, silver was the Moon’s metal, and gold the metal of the Sun. The principle of duality and its expression in the juxtaposition of gold and silver were quintessentially Andean as well.

Mutual adaptation: Catholic symbolism directed toward hechizeros A much more prominent example of mutual adaptations in the language of symbols that relates directly to the world of Andean religious specialists is the representation of Santiago in colonial churches. Both the saint and his scallop-­ shaped shells underwent transformation. When he left Spain for the New World, Santiago was accompanied by his trademark insignia, beloved of his pilgrims. In the Andes, the frequency and prominence of Santiago’s shells, sometimes replaced by Spondylus princeps (Pacific thorny oyster), increased even more when Peruvian chroniclers found out that the aquatic objects were widely used among hechizeros. In the late sixteenth century, Polo de Ondegardo accused the Spaniards of a flourishing but destructive shell trade. According to him, mollo (or mullu), the spondylus shell, was a standard item used in offerings for huacas. The chronicler also observed that indigenous people drank ground mollo with chicha. From Sarmiento’s comment, historians have concluded that the Andean world valued shells more than gold and silver.133 Indeed, seventeenth-­century religious specialists continued to arrange shells in their rituals.134 Furthermore, during Inca and early colonial times shells symbolized water. No wonder, then, that John the Baptist is also depicted in the churches of the indigenous communities of Checacupe, San Jerónimo, Carabuco, and Huaro with the spondylus shell in his hand as he baptizes Christ (see figure 5.2).135 Here, as in the use of gold and silver, an already established European symbolic language could easily be enriched by a didactic function tailored to the common Andeans and perhaps even hechizeros. But Santiago’s metamorphosis was not limited merely to his attributes. He himself took on even greater stature, which he retains to this day.136 According to Catholics, Santiago, who in the Old World was Matamoros (“the Moor slayer”), became Mataindios, “the one who kills idolatrous Indians.” Thus many churches in the southern Andes incorporated statues or images of Santiago, brandishing a sword, on the back of a horse with a Moor or Indian beneath its hooves (see figure 5.3).137 Yet according to Andeans, Santiago was Illapa, “god” of thunder.138

Figure 5.2. Baptism scene with a spondylus shell taken from the baptistry in the

church of Carabuco (ca. late seventeenth century). Carabuco, Bolivia.

Figure 5.3. Santiago “Mataindios” (ca. first half of eighteenth century). Church of Pucyura, Cuzco.

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Chucuilla, Catu Illa, Intuiillapa, or, in a contracted version, Illapa, was the one entity who bestowed power on religious specialists and was worshipped as the giver of rain. At first, Catholic elites did not prevent this indigenous assimilation—indeed, they encouraged it. But over the course of the seventeenth century, they realized that the process of assimilation was veering dangerously out of control, and they tried to rein it in. Arriaga forbade Andeans to name their children Santiago in the hopes of stopping Illapa from smoothly riding under the flag of Christendom.139 Nevertheless, Santiago remained the one and only saint during colonial times that shaped the imagination of hechi­ zeros, and he did so via his identification with Illapa. No other saint was similarly adopted by them. Colonial depictions of Saint Cyprian, Saint Anthony the Abbot, and Saint Bartholomew (Saint Thomas) might have indirectly or directly alluded to hechizeros and their communication with demons. But except for the seventeenth-­century depiction of Saint Thomas, who replaced Saint Bartholomew in the Jesuit church of Tinta, no context clearly links the saint and the indigenous audience (and establishing a link to hechizeros would obviously be even more difficult). Saint Anthony the Abbot, shown fighting against the demons, served as a warning for Jesuit novices attending the seminary in Cuzco. Saint Cyprian was associated with Spanish sorcerers, but only after the eighteenth century, if not later, did he become a companion of mestizo or indigenous hechizeros or ritual specialists.140 Thus, there was no colonial saint that particularly addressed hechizeros.141 Three other artistic conventions may suggest that Catholics made adjustments to conform to the cultural practices of religious specialists: the use of feathers in representations of the host at the moment of consecration, the popular depiction of Saint Thomas and Saint Francis with wings (see figure 5.4), and the employment of alabaster in churches. Feathers and wings may have alluded to Andean beliefs in the power of religious specialists and their rituals. Though chroniclers did not record the connection, the artists may well have been familiar with Andean beliefs about the meaning of feathers and the ability of religious specialists to be “transformed” into other beings, especially birds.142 As visitation records show, Lima’s ecclesiastical elite often were aware that religious specialists believed in the healing properties of white stones—stones that were similar to the piedra Huamanga. But it is impossible to determine whether artists and their masters frequently used alabaster in churches because they too believed in those properties or because they simply admired its aesthetic qualities.143 So far, our hy-

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Figure 5. 4. Depiction of Saint Francis with wings, in the church of Ayaviri (ca. late seventeenth century). Ayaviri, Peru.

potheses regarding unofficial transfers of knowledge—­transmission of what chroniclers, Jesuits, visitators, and priests had learned about religious specialists to artists and their employers—remain on shaky ground. Despite this uncertainty, it should by now be obvious that assimilation in the Andean-­Christian “republic” worked both ways, as the Catholics and the Andean people each borrowed from the other. Why, then, in this glittering world of baroque manifestations, did religious specialists persist in their distrust of Catholic symbols and tangible objects?

The emergence of a cl andestine third “republic ”: The religious specialists’ world Without a doubt, the life of religious specialists during the seventeenth century was far from idyllic. Most Jesuits reported with self-­assertive conviction on the defenselessness of hechizeros in various regions against each new epidemic, be it typhus, measles, or rubella. Besides its propaganda value in impressing on the public the almost miraculous healing powers of God and the Jesuits, this observation contained some

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truth. Religious specialists’ medical knowledge proved effective against malaria and several poisons, but useless against measles and typhus.144 When European epidemics decimated an ayllu, the elderly and elite members who were the repositories of traditional knowledge “walked away from the life of human beings,” as Jesuits phrased it.145 What hurt religious specialists’ authority even more than these epidemics were the denunciations by their own people.146 Indirectly or purposefully, the church inserted a wedge into the Andean people—a wedge that some members of indigenous society welcomed. The collaboration of curacas with the Catholic Church often resulted in hechizeros being denounced. Accusations by others who sought to use the visitator to gain tactical advantages in ongoing social conflicts similarly put religious specialists on the defensive. Even religious specialists, perhaps motivated by rivalries as well as the desire to save their own skins, willingly denounced other hechizeros.147 Francisco García Julcapuma, an indio ladino from Trujillo, for example, deftly painted the image of himself as a Christian healer while denouncing his colleagues as “true” hechizeros. In the village of Moche, they would suck blood from other people; he had witnessed this with his own eyes.148 Another hechizero allegedly walked around with a glass of chicha and maize during the night to “perform other kind of sorceries.” Yet a third was a blind and famous hechizera, to whom many turned when some object or other had gone missing. Francisco García Julcapuma concluded, “[A]ll these Indians are hechizeros who worship huacas and possess idols and for the things they do, they are no Christians.”149 He obviously was not of their number. Luis de Paz, a vicar in Trujillo, believed Francisco and set him free. The many new challenges faced by religious specialists during the seventeenth century extended beyond new diseases and denunciations. The huacas’ (dis)satisfactions were also a source of grave concern, as the Taki Onkoy already testified. Then, fifty years earlier, the huacas’ cries to be remembered had generated pan-­Andean resistance. But now religious specialists experienced their huacas’ needs in individual encounters. As the Andean people became Andean-­Christians, the huacas blamed the huacapvillac, the malquipvillac, the libiac­ pavillac—in short, the religious specialists. In 1650, Fernando Carvachin—as we will see in chapter 6—several times encountered a huaca who reminded him to worship the Sun and other such entities. Huacas continued to enter religious specialists’ dreams, asking for food and recognition. Many inhabitants in the Andes, stigmatized as idolaters,

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disapproved of Catholicism. Andrés Guaraca, Alonso y Chaupis, Diego Villcachuaga, Pedro Malqui of Concepción de Chupas, and others argued that their huacas would stop providing potatoes, sheep, and children if their people continued to convert to Catholicism and forgot the old powers.150 The religious specialists of the Cajatambo province deplored that the dead were buried in graveyards around the churches and no longer in their traditional places, the machays.151 Thus, the outward pressure on religious specialists—applied by evan‑ gelization and denunciations—met with an inward counterpressure that arose from the logic of Andean religion and the belief in the hua‑ cas’ nature. Huacas were annoyed, “enojadas,” when they were not worshipped, and their retaliation could take the form of hardships. With the help of their indigenous clientele, many religious specialists withstood all these challenges and continued to be the unofficial authorities in their ayllus and villages. Indigenous and mestizo people in Lima’s archdiocese and in the provinces searched for a religious specialist’s help when they were stricken by different ailments or required their huacas’ protection before they visited Creole Lima or Quito.152 Andeans also consulted a religious specialist when a treasured item— perhaps another person’s heart—was lost. A religious specialist could modify his or her repertoire to undertake new tasks, such as providing an ayllu protection against the Spaniards—but these were variations on themes familiar for generations before them, as similar tasks were performed under Inca tutelage. To provide protection against Spaniards, the religious specialist (according to Spanish observation) drew on lion’s hairs, which were believed to empower Indians.153 During colonial times, the image of Indians fighting against the lion concealed under “Castilla y León” was popular.154 Sometimes (albeit rarely), the religious specialist’s clientele expanded to include a Creole or a Spaniard.155 This was even more exceptional in the countryside, though there may well have been many more cases never recorded and thus unknown to us. In essence, over the colonial period, the function of an indigenous ritual, its “symbolic” composition (as we will see below), and its ritualistic performance (as we will see in the next chapter) changed little in the highlands. The informal Andean “republic” that emerged during colonial times—headed by religious specialists and their clientele and structured by their rituals, with its almost total lack of assimilation to Catholic objects and beliefs—was clandestine.156 Of course, it was hidden only from the eyes of Catholic priests, missionaries, and visitators. For in-

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digenous people, who knew exactly who in their own or neighboring ayllu could offer healings or the protection of a huaca, religious specialists’ actions were as visible as they had been in the past. Behind the rigorous protective shield of Andean culture, seventeenth-­century religious specialists continued to hand down from one generation to the next their traditional knowledge concerning huacas, conopas, yllas, and the properties of maize, coca, villca, and powders. This transfer occurred even in those regions in which visitators entered villages several times per decade. Huarochirí provides a good example.157 In 1650, Inés Carua Chumbi from Yaulí was accused of instructing her grandchild in hechizerías. Pedro Inga confessed in 1668 that he had learned the old traditions from his grandparents. When asked why he kept up this ancient lore, he replied, for memoria. Indeed, the Andean notion of me­ moria was a crucial element in the passive and clandestine resistance of many religious specialists. Whereas in early modern Europe historia slowly was transformed into a vehicle that legitimized doctrinal truth, property, or even “progress,” and its explicit ties to Christianity (which produced large folios filled with the manifestations of God’s omnipotence) were forgotten, Andean memory retained its essentially religious nature throughout the colonial period.158 Here, an ayllu could survive (let alone prosper) only if it was oriented toward its origins. In the Quechua language, the past is what lies in front of one’s eyes, not something hidden behind one’s back. Pedro Inga—and his name suggests the highest authority—believed that because old traditions had been forgotten, his kinship group in Ondores would have no water. Thus, looking straight into the face of past history, not Catholicism, was what ensured the future. In this belief, Pedro Inga was representative of many religious specialists in Lima’s provinces.

Keeping Andean ritual mesas pure and maintaining the power of Andean yllas One response of hechizeros, noted above, was to sacrifice rosaries or Christian images of saints to the huacas, but the question of whether such acts were unusual has not been discussed. Did some religious specialists instead incorporate rosaries and other Christian items into their rituals? An investigation of colonial-­ era religious specialists’ rituals may provide some hints toward an answer. Although the visitation protocols provide us with only a murky view of rituals or ritualistic performances, our information on the objects that were used in rituals

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is exceptionally reliable, thanks to the bureaucratic outlook of the visitators and average priests who searched for idols, counted objects, and entered them in lists that should be trusted to inform us of the presence or absence of items employed by religious specialists.159 It is therefore telling that none of these records for the central and southern highlands testifies to religious specialists’ use of Catholic objects in their rituals. No visitator reports finding images of saints, medallions, the cross, or rosaries in the bags of an hechizero, and no indigenous witness mentions their possible use. At the same time, we know that these items were quite readily available in the Andes.160 The Jesuit Rodrigo de Cabredo reported with great content that indigenous children had learned to play with makeshift rosaries.161 Judging from the number of rosaries in Guaman Poma’s iconography, by 1615 colonial society in the countryside was in the secure grip of the Virgin. “Indios christianos” were said to pray on every occasion, “rezar primeramenta a la Santísima Trinidad medio rosario que son: pichica chunga mita muchaycuscayqui María[.]”162 Despite their wide dispersion in Andean society, nowhere until the late seventeenth century, and specifically in the highland regions not until beyond the colonial period, did Christian symbols replace conopas, maize, coca leaves, fat, shells, and other regionally varied items in religious specialists’ rituals. With respect to their trust in coca leaves, maize, powders, and fat—and thus the symbolic language of the offerings—the rituals of religious specialists in the central and northern highlands were similar.163 This resistance to including Catholic objects is astonishing, for religious specialists’ mesas—their collections of specific objects such as coca leaves, conopas, and corncobs—were made up of physical items that bore power. We might therefore reasonably expect that Catholic tangible objects that were likewise presented as being powerful would be included. Even if crosses were not readily available, it would certainly have been easy to fabricate them—and, in fact, crosses were omnipresent. Arriaga reported that he had entered a village where each household had its cross properly hung on the door. He also found hechizeros there. We thus are left with two questions: Why did this resistance to Catholic symbols exist, and when did it give way? The second question can only be answered inexactly on the basis of available historical knowledge of indigenous ritual customs from the modern period, owing to the fluidity of customs and the lack of observers over the whole Andean map during the colonial period. Northern and southern religious specialists diverged with respect to their attitudes toward

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Christian symbols in a ritualistic setting (as distinct from invocations of saints and God). By the eighteenth century, northern healing rituals included Catholic symbols such as the cross, the rosary, or a crown of the Virgin.164 In the highlands, in contrast, curanderos continued to ward off Catholic symbols, as is documented by the few visitation protocols from eighteenth-­century Cuzco. But even then, as Tschopik found out in Chucuito in the 1940s, Andean religious specialists distrusted Catholic objects.165 With regards to altomisayuqs and other religious dignitaries in the southern Andes, pictorial Christian symbols have only very recently entered the mesas for use in their rituals of healing or worship.166 Answering the first question is equally difficult. Two additional layers of Andean idiosyncrasies have to be explored before we can attempt to discern the motives for distrusting Catholic symbols. As the reader may have come to expect, the answer again returns us to the Andean notion of embodiment. Jesuits thought that the images of saints, rosaries, and medallions that they distributed to indigenous society acted as reminders of the new faith. One Indian had believed the cross was powerful—powerful enough to chase away his huaca. How did colonial religious specialists define the corresponding power of the Andean objects used in rituals or viewed as “talismans”? The comparison between Catholic objects and colonial-­era yllas (usually powerful stone objects) is instructive. As Sarmiento de Gamboa and others agreed, the Incas had their talismans, their huauquis, which ensured Inca victories.167 Once the Incas were gone or disempowered, huauquis allegedly became instruments for love magic. But more important for the Andean world were yllas. In 1609, González Holguín explained ylla as “the big or notable bezoar stone, big as an egg, or even bigger, which they carry around for riches and luck.” An ylla was thus a bezoar stone that was associated with riches and luck.168 Bezoar stones are kidney stones from llamas, and especially vicuñas. In dictionaries before González Holguín’s, the term ylla or illa either did not appear (as in Domingo de Santo Tomás) or was translated as “gift of the Inca elite.”169 The word ylla had other specific resonances. It was related to Illapa, or Thunder. Polo de Ondegardo had observed that yllas, after being struck by a lightning bolt, were given to camascas.170 Thunder was (and is) the provider of powers for religious specialists in the high Andes. At the same time, the Cuzco priest Cristóbal de Albornoz established a relationship between ylla and llamas, referring in his Instrucción to

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Figure 5.5. Conopas (llama stone representations), bezoar stones, and spondylus shell used in rituals in the Cuzco area. Private collection.

“yllas llamas.” Indians held these “yllas llamas” in great esteem and worshipped them because they would increase the fertility of all the llamas. Thus, by the early seventeenth century two slightly different Spanish notions about yllas were circulating: bezoar stones, guarantors for luck of an unspecified nature; and “yllas llamas” more specifically guaranteeing the fertility of livestock. Villagómez and other Jesuits identified yllas with bezoars and the hope of fertility among stock.171 In his catalog of sins Villagómez reminded the priest hearing confession to ask, “Did you, or do you, have in your house or in other parts conopas, zaramamas for the augmentation of livestock, or bezoar stones, which they call illa? Or, do you worship for such an effect molle, . . . maize cakes, or other such normal offerings?”172 Villagómez thus also lists co­ nopas, zaramamas and yllas (as bezoars) as objects that were kept in the house “for the augmentation of livestock.” In addition, Villagómez included shells in this context of aids to fertility (see figure 5.5).173 In modern-­day southern Peru, yllas are sometimes synonymous with what we would call amulets: objects that provide protection and ensure luck.174 No longer identified with the llama’s kidney stones, in the southern Andes they take various shapes. Some are made of a white

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stone called piedra Huamanga, from the region of modern-­day Ayacucho. Historical testimonies also show that during Inca and colonial times, people crafted from stone small figures of maize, potatoes, coca leaves, and llamas, which later became known as conopas.175 These items were either kept in houses or buried in the fields.176 Some colonial religious specialists came to view their conopas as carriers of luck of unspecified application,177 but usually the symbolic link between conopas and fertility was preserved. In 1663, the visitator Bernardo de Noboa came to the village of San Francisco de Mangas and interviewed several “priests of the idols.”178 Two among them, Constancia Aurai Punanqui and Hernando Chaupij Loraz Chaupi, explained that their co­ nopas “in form of a llama and a potato served the augmentation of potatoes, and another large stone was the idol conopa for the increase in maize.”179 All these objects thus served to bring fertility to the entities that the object represented. The power to ensure fertility was stored in the object itself. These religious specialists added that they also worshipped their ancestor, named Aula Atama, in a house, and the ancestor’s mother, Urpaivachae, on top of a mountain. Moreover, the origin of their kinship group was the sea. They offered silver and maize to their conopas, much as offerings were made to a new saint, in Guaman Poma’s description. The Indians received lashes for possessing and worshipping idols. Unlike the vaguely defined and broad meaning of modern yllas, and unlike colonial Catholic objects of devotion, these yllas and conopas focused on ensuring fertility in an agrarian context, whether in the maize, coca, or potato fields or among the llamas.180 It is the meaning preserved to this day by herders living in the Vilcanota range.181 The specific hope for fertility was highlighted in Inca as well as in colonial Andean times by the use in rituals of fat, the Andean symbol of life. The colonial visitation records testify that they combined some stone “idol” of undefined character, fat (usually llama, but sometimes guinea pig), and coca leaves as well. In 1700, the healer Pedro Vilca Guaman was convicted of hechizerías in the village of Huarochirí. The evidence against him included the contents of his bag: yllas, fat, and coca leaves. Though yllas or conopas were connected to the local huacas in a variety of ways, the trio of yllas, fat, and coca leaves was almost a constant in huaca worship and in rituals of healing. Sometimes seventeenth-­ century religious specialists burned fat or rubbed it on a sick person’s body.182 Whether used in offerings, healings, or divination rituals, fat symbolized, and still symbolizes today, the essence of life and of vital

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force. When fat was applied to a sick person, was used in burning an offering to a huaca, or was applied to an ylla, it endowed ritual activities, the human body, and yllas all with life.183 Spaniards and colonial natives came to view fat as a symbol of luck. In 1631, Pérez Bocanegra captured the latter signification. He asked whether an Indian woman put fat next to her coca or maize chests that she was about to sell so as to increase her chances of making a sale.184 Coca leaves in conjunction with yllas refer to knowledge about the outcome of fertility, something which is still believed among the Kallawaya. Thus according to colonial religious specialists—though of course it was a view not openly expressed—the power potentially stored in Catholic objects could not compete with the power inherent in yllas. How could a Catholic object such as the cross or the image of some saint ensure fertility if its origin had nothing to do with either llamas or crops? A cross might have been powerful for a Catholic or for a fight with a huaca, but it did not increase fertility. Why should one embrace objects that lacked power? Yllas in the form of bezoar stones, in contrast, had a direct relation with llamas. No wonder, then, that in a society of peasants and herders these objects were considered more powerful than any Catholic substitutes. Ensuring fertility and a plentiful supply of water with the help of huacas remained one of the crucial concerns of the common people as well as of religious specialists during colonial times.185 Another key aim was to ensure health (see chapter 6). Ávila’s suggested prayers to God could not replace a powerful object, for objects were believed to contain more holiness than supernatural entities. This attitude explains why even those who distrusted Catholic objects felt relatively free to invoke the Catholic God. In 1610, the bishop of Trujillo interrogated Francisco García Julcapuma, a Spanish-­speaking Indian. For six years he had served with the Augustinians, near the Plaza Mayor. Now he came in chains to confess what he had done when he was not helping the Catholic friars: cure people with herbs. Asked if he healed with an idol, he answered no, he healed only with God. He cured as a Christian with certain herbs called tumbi, pilpi, tinti, and tulti, and he was well acquainted with their properties. García Julcapuma must have looked like the ideal herbalist, a type to which we will return in chapter 7. Why then did he arouse suspicion? His little bag contained only a white stone and some herbs, but the fear was that the herbs he knew might sometimes have lethal effect. In the end, he was released. Compared to many other Quechua-­

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speaking Indians in the hinterlands of Lima, García Julcapuma was unexceptional in his Catholicism, which did not conflict with a concentration on herbal remedies. Apparently, he had denounced the worship of huacas: he had destroyed his yllas, stones, fat, maize, and colored powders. When reading of the similar claims of other “confessants,” however, we cannot help but get the impression that “I heal with God” became a reflexive set phrase. Consider Juana Chumpi, an Andean woman from the ayllu Huchu. In 1659, when Juan Sarmiento de Vivero visited her community in San Pedro de Arcas and examined her, Chumpi confessed that she did everything with God. But the visitator distrusted her words. When he sent someone into her house to check whether her material world matched her confession, he was not surprised to discover a contradiction. The visitator found a little cloth containing white powders, and she confessed it was hers. When her house was scrutinized a second time, another little cloth with herbs and powders was discovered. This was proof enough. The visitator admonished her, ordered her to wear a cross around her neck, and punished her with fifty lashes. If she returned to these hechizerías, she could no longer expect mercy. Although Juana Chumpi, who did not speak Spanish, professed to have healed with God, God in fact may have played a very small role in her healings, probably used in lieu of her old huaca (which she may have still worshipped). An accusation was lodged with Luís Fernández de Herrera against another Andean woman, María Sania; according to a neighbor, she did not worship the image of the “Limpia Concepción,” the Virgin Mary, and had not offered alms to it. The seventy-­year-­old Andean from Santo Domingo de Cochalaraos was solitary, and everyone in the village feared her powers. Once incarcerated, María Sania began to speak. She knew the reason for her imprisonment: false denunciations. She said that the whole village consulted her about the future. They feared her because she talked to an idol, but they would come to her and offer her various things, including special potatoes and maize for her sacrifices.186 Perhaps the neighbors denounced her only because they had been forced to do so by the visitator. Her material possessions included a “very dirty piece of cloth, in which were four pieces of shit from a ferret, and rats’ teeth. Moreover, some pieces of hair from a woman and a small lion made out of mud.”187 The defender of the Indians stressed—in an interestingly rationalistic manner, typical of contemporary Spanish discourse—that she was in conformity with Christianity, because all her

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superstitions could in no serious way affect the future. In the end, she had to pay a fine that went to the church in Cochalaraos. Thus, for much of the seventeenth century “to heal with God” was an expression with little meaning in the central and southern highlands.188 In most cases, it did not indicate that worship of huacas and apus had been replaced. In 1650, Inés Carua Chumbi, whose story was told above, knew very well that she was baptized and a Christian; however, this knowledge had not prevented her from healing with Apu Parato.189 In none of the surviving confessions of indigenous hechizeros do we read any references to specific saints. In the southern Andes, appeals to God, Christ, the Virgin, or saints seem to have entered rituals only during the twentieth century.190 As Tschopik has suggested, such invocations of saints came very late. To this day, they have not supplanted prayers to huacas, apus, and the Pachamama, though Christian invocations—as opposed to Christian objects—form part of the rituals of altomisayuqs.191 The distrust in Catholic objects in the highlands was thus stronger than the distrust in Catholic supernatural entities.192 How do we explain religious specialists’ distrust in Catholic objects, but their relative open-­mindedness toward invoking God or the saints in rituals during much of the seventeenth century, and probably the eighteenth and nineteenth as well? Even though in some remote highland areas the instruction in Catholicism might have still been weak during the seventeenth century, more fundamental was the Andean logic of embodiment that informed actions. In the Andean world, the holiness of a specific Andean object was greater than that of an immaterial entity. Thus, an invocation could be integrated into a ritual more easily than could a Catholic object. Second, the holiness of an Andean object resulted from its perceived powers, especially its ability to ensure fertility and health. Whereas the power that was stored in these objects was simultaneously actual and symbolic, the items that Catholic priests and missionaries brought to Peru did not, by their own description, have this relation to fertility. Moreover, when religious specialists used some type of ylla in conjunction with fat and coca leaves, it formed part of a complex symbolic cosmos. Religious specialists were obviously not willing to disrupt this totality and replace it with a Catholic object that lacked such connections to their larger worldview. In the Andean world, the distinction between representation and embodiment was thus incomprehensible; in effect, it did not exist. In fact, to think of representation and embodiment together and see them as indistinguishable properties enabled numerous religious specialists

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to withstand Catholicism. Religious specialists thus lived and said what the Andean logic of the holy dictated. Since there was no true distinction in Andean cosmology between the supernatural and the natural, between representation and embodiment, religious specialists’ practice often accorded with their theory. Yet in the Catholic cosmos, where the supernatural sphere was different from the preternatural and natural ones, where representation should be separate from embodiment, practice and theory could more easily drift apart.

Chapter Six

Glimpses of the Protective Powers of Andean Rituals in the Highl ands

Even as visitators systematically destroyed the physical bodies of Andean huacas and imprisoned hechizeros, and despite the many assimilations and outward changes in their world, Andean religious specialists continued to carry the sacred geography of huacas in their minds or physical manifestations of huacas in their bags. As customs in the Andean worlds were deeply rooted in a logic that had developed over centuries, the attempted Spanish colonization of the Andean imagination, to a large extent, could only scratch the surface. Throughout the seventeenth century, religious specialists and Andean commoners often continued to perform their inherited customs in the prescribed manner—as glimpses into their seventeenth-­century world suggest. The need to promote fertility was one of the great constants, present during colonial times no less than under Inca rule, nourishing a steadfast belief in the embodied superhuman powers of yllas and huacas, whether mountains, lakes, or stones.1 Always, Andeans hoped for a sufficient supply of water, livestock, crops, and salt. In Huamantanga in 1650, Andeans offered in the highland areas of the central and southern Andes two sets of powders, poco and llacsa, to their huaca Pomaguato, hoping that doing so would bring a good harvest.2 Pomaguato was a male huaca who had earlier lost his female counterpart to the fires of a visitator. But Pomaguato was still active, provided that he was given sufficient offerings—and from the perspective of a huaca, colored powders were a welcome food. But Andeans knew that huacas also liked llamas, llama blood, fat, chicha, coca leaves, feathers, textiles, and maize.3 In Ondores in 1668, a couple venerated a mummy that had been wrapped in colored textiles and buried with a kernel of maize between its teeth. This mummy was a valued member of the Ondorean community, and widely believed to provide water. In February, after the festivi-

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ties for San Blas and before the annual cleaning of the irrigation ditches, Ondoreans sacrificed a llama in its honor.4 As late as 1730, in Carampona in the Huarochirí district (a region that had seen over the last one hundred years many diligent visitators, among them Francisco de Ávila and Juan Sarmiento de Vivero), stones in the environs that were still venerated were sprinkled with blood.5 All their idols got burnt.6 According to sacred geography and the rhythm of the seasons, natives of the central and southern highlands continued to sprinkle chicha onto sacred stones; to toast sacred mountains with chicha; to bury conopas; to sacrifice llamas, coca, and guinea pigs; and to approach their mall­ quis with prayers. Sometimes an entire ayllu gathered to perform an elaborate collective ritual for fertility, under the leadership of a religious specialist. But while commoners and religious specialists continued to perform fertility rituals, an even greater motivation for Andeans’ reliance on the expertise of religious specialists was the quest for health.7 Indeed, the primary reason for performing these secret, elaborate, and individually tailored rituals was to improve the health of individuals and their loved ones. Andeans approached religious specialists in their own and neighboring villages, knowing that in those hands lay knowledge about how to meet the demands of a huaca, how to heal, and how to find hidden things.8 Sometimes the specialist succeeded in finding a husband who had cheated on his spouse, or helped find lost textiles and animals that had gone astray.9 But finding animals, textiles, and husbands was merely a sideline, derived from a more important matrix of knowledge: the ability to divine the causes of a sickness and how to cure it. María Guanico, a woman from the village of Quinti, was one such knowledgeable healer. One day, Guanico was called on by her fellow Indians and asked to divine whether a sick person would die or regain health by examining the spittle on chewed coca leaves.10 In another instance, María was asked to heal another María. In order to heal her, she took the woman’s manta and said to her white idol: “Mighty deceased Inca, take it away.”11 Afterward, she threw the manta into the river, “and with it, the sick woman was healed.” When María asked the huaca for fertility, she lined up several items on a stone that she had brought from the surrounding fields. In one line she arranged coca leaves. The second line consisted of silver (plata). In the third line she put the fat of a llama, and on the fourth line she put the idol. Later on, María prepared a new pot full of chicha (new pots were often considered the appropriate pottery for brewing liquids used in rituals).12 Finally, María chewed coca

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leaves. Before she drank the chicha, she whispered to the idol, “Father, I am your niece and I am poor; give me maize, and potatoes.” María was thus a religious specialist with different expertises: a healer, a diviner, and a specialist in fertility. And the white stone was central to her healing procedures and to her petitions for fertility. Later, we will consider her reasons for invoking the Inca. Like María Guanico, the Andean specialist usually had authority in three areas: huaca worship, healings, and divination. This expertise originated from a common source: the specialist’s access to huacas. For by divining from coca leaves, spittle, spiders, guinea pigs, and maize, the specialist could learn both what the huaca demanded and how the sickness evolved.13 Juan Nicolas in Ayaviri questioned his figures of llamas, women, and of other shapes whether it was right to heal the stomachache in the manner he envisioned.14 And Juan Camax of Xauxa, for example, divined with coca. If the coca fell on the right-­hand side, this meant health. If it fell on the left-­hand side, this meant sickness.15 Huacas thus remained the focal point for diagnosis and therapy. Among those huacas were both regional huacas and figures and objects in the possession of Andean religious specialists. Without the act of venerating local huacas and yllas, colonial healers felt (and perhaps were) bereft of powers. Any healing ritual in the seventeenth-­century highlands consisted of two inseparable processes: the veneration of a huaca by the religious specialist (and sometimes the patient as well) and the specialist’s attentions to the sick person. During colonial times, sometimes the huaca bore its traditional name; sometimes it was invoked under the cover of the Christian saint Santiago. But regardless of what it was called, the huaca provided the healer with powers.16

Huacas, healing, and pl ace In the neo-­Catholic town of Santissima Trinidad of Huancayo, Juan Camac, originally from Xauxa, was an expert in healing with cuys (guinea pigs).17 This expertise seems to have been gained through his close relationship with Santiago. One day, while looking at a sick person, the healer observed that Santiago was enojado—furiously annoyed. The way to make the sick person well would be to appease Santiago’s spirits. He therefore told the patient to tuck himself into a lli­ clla (a fine woman’s mantle) at midnight.18 While this was being done, the healer implored, “My father, Santiago, descend from the mountains and come from all sides, rest in your huts and come with your splendor

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and with the sound of the tinkling bells. Heal the sick patient.” Soon thereafter, Santiago arrived, spreading the clear sounds of tinkling bells through the hut and radiating with glittering splendor. When asked whether the sick person would recover, Santiago gave a positive answer. Santiago and Juan Camac apparently worked closely together, and fortunately we have testimony that gives an unusually explicit account of how this intimate relationship came about. In his testimony, Juan Camac told of another Indian, Juan de la Cruz, who had initiated him as a healer, and he described the initiation ceremony. On top of a lliclla both Juans put coca leaves, arranged in the form of a crescent; inside it they put white maize cake, a coin (plata), and an herb called campeche. They then began to chew the leaves. After a while, Juan de la Cruz withdrew into the corner of the house; there, still chewing on the leaves, he mumbled something through closed teeth. When he returned, he said that the friendship between Juan Camac and Santiago had already begun. Subsequently, both saw Santiago again, intentionally drawing him from his mountain home. Juan de la Cruz told the approaching Santiago that Juan Camac wanted to be his friend, and Santiago replied, “We are [already] friends, and you may call upon me whenever it serves you. I will help your work.” Later on, Juan de la Cruz told Juan Camac that Santiago would not only heal him but also teach him how to heal and divine, aiding in his healing, and reminded him to use the campeche herb that served all lovers. Finally, Juan de la Cruz gave Juan Camac two stones, telling him that they could be ground to make a powder that would alleviate any kind of pain.19 Whether the powder was to be swallowed or used in an ointment is unclear. On another occasion, Santiago told his neophyte that whenever he wanted to know whether or not the patient would recover, he should take two coca leaves between two fingers of his left hand, put a real de la plata on top of it, throw everything into the air, and declare, “Coca, if the sick will heal, fall onto the right-­hand side.” Their fall to the left would indicate that the sickness would continue.20 The healer should then burn a corncob on behalf of Santiago; its fumes, according to this testimony, would sustain the soul of the sick. So went the continuous give-­and-­take between Juan Camac and Santiago, informed by the idea that human and huaca spirits both required sustenance, and motivated by the utter dependence of the healer on the huaca Santiago.21 In this colonial testimony, Santiago was simply one of many huacas on which healers depended and from which they learned how to diag-

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nose problems and provide therapy as well. Hernando (or Fernando) Carvachin was a native from Huamantanga in the province of Canta.22 As an old man, he became talkative, and his unique story is recorded in a confession made to Pedro de Quijano Bevellos, the priest of Canta and visitator of idolatries. It suggests that Carvachin was a healer who had a deep and persistent connection to the huacas. He spoke in detail of a frightening incident that had occurred eight years before giving his account. Carvachin had gone out to his field at dawn, searching for a lost horse. Near the mountain next to San Pedro de Quipan he came to a cave. In its entrance stood a demon in the form of a big white dog with its tongue sticking out; Carvachin went closer to look at the dog, turned around—and the dog had vanished, leaving him terrified. Later he saw the same dog on the other side of the mountain, known as Guacancani. Then, just before giving his account, Carvachin had gone into his maize field and met the demon in the form of an old Indian man (Carvachin insisted that he was sober). The old Indian approached him, “giving him lashes almost like hitting him with a stick.” Carvachin became dizzy, said nothing, and went home in great fear. A week later, the same demon reappeared, again in the form of an Indian. Carvachin noticed his huge hands. After asking Carvachin how it felt to be under protection, bestowed with new powers, the demon gave him “a string with small black pearls; others were blue on a string, tied to a braid of black hairs.” The Indian admonished him to worship the Sun and to carry his huacas with him. He should make sacrifices to some of them and use others to heal sick people, to “prepare medicine,” and to divine future occurrences. After receiving these items, Carvachin fainted, and the demon-­huaca-­Indian disappeared. Carvachin took the stones into his house and guarded them well. Later, when a sick person approached him, he decided to use the new tools that he had been given. He took four or five of the black stones and two blue stones, pulverized them, and went to a nearby lake. There he begged, “Deity, you who are hidden, who are you? Why do you want to take this young poor Indian’s life away? I implore you, give him health.” While saying this, he sprinkled the powders on the sick boy, who eventually recovered his health. As the cases of Juan Camac and Hernando Carvachin show, encounters between huacas and healers were tied to a sacred geography—that of the ancestral ayllu and even of the new settlement. For many regional and local contexts, we still lack microhistorical studies that combine archaeological (pre-­Columbian as well as historical) and ethno-

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graphic finds to reconstruct the local idiosyncrasies within the sacred geography of the seventeenth century. Yet the traveling healers whom one can encounter in the visitation records, such as Francisco Malqui from Huaroquín and three healers interviewed from Cuzco, undoubtedly stored this sacred geography in their bags.23 Sometimes Andean commoners joined religious specialists in addressing their requests for healing to sacred places. These commoners hoped that the huaca would heal without the need for anyone to perform a particularly elaborate ritual or for the sick person to undergo a more complex therapy. Ideally, such healings would occur simply in exchange for an offering. San Lorenzo de Quinti was a town that remembered its huacas’ healing powers quite well.24 The overzealous visitator Juan Sarmiento de Vivero had a difficult time in converting the people of San Lorenzo de Quinti and neighboring ayllus. On his travels from one parish to another, he encountered many Andeans who—to his great chagrin—very vividly remembered the huacas that Francisco de Ávila had destroyed. Instead of disappearing, these huacas continued to live in the minds of supposed Christians. Isabel Choque, accused of being an hechizera, had an especially good memory for the sacred sites and former times. She remembered that on the Camino Real leading to a nearby mountain, there had been a stone of many different colors. Under pressure, she acknowledged that although that stone had been destroyed, it had been replaced by another colorful stone, Sumasauru, that lay in a different direction. A third stone “in the form of a musca llimpi” (a small grindstone) had been overlooked by Ávila, and the village possessed a fourth lithic huaca as well.25 According to Isabel Choque, the people of San Juan de Tantaran regularly carried chicha and coca to the stones, especially when they were sick. They would ask these stones for health. When the visitator lifted up some other huaca stones along the Camino Real, he found coca leaves and the bones of a llama under them. On top of a fifth conspicuously rectangular stone, the visitator found the ashes of sacrificed animals, said to have been offered in hopes of restoring the health of a sick boy. Very likely, Isabel Choque directed the people’s actions from time to time.

Diagnosis and therapy, huacas and symbols When Andeans knocked on the door of an indigenous religious specialist during the seventeenth century, they were acting in accordance with a custom that had lasted under colonial rule for at least three gen-

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erations. Although a conclusive assessment would require further regional microhistorical studies of Andean hinterland parishes, it seems likely that the inhabitants believed they would achieve better results by going to a religious specialist than to the church or a priest. Several instances were previously mentioned of Indians in the late seventeenth century who first asked for the help of a Spanish or Creole doctor and then, when disappointed, returned to their local healers. And even without the guidance of a religious specialist, they trusted huacas more than San Pedro or the Virgin Mary when they sought to address physical ailments. Although we do not have detailed documentation of religious special‑ ists and their healing performances, we do have the repeated mention of like features in various visitation protocols and among various healers. The accounts indicate several features of a standard seventeenth-­ century Andean healing ritual and provide clues to the Andean understanding of sickness during later colonial times. Some of these features had been captured by early colonial chroniclers, but with one manifest difference: the trust of some Andean religious specialists in Inca power as exhibited in Andean healing rituals.26 Most healing rituals took place in a hut. Highland healers usually received payment in kind, which they generally used as offerings or as instruments of healing themselves. Some healers, however, preferred pesos or plata, which they used as offerings or to cover unspecified expenses.27 In several instances, disputes between a sick person and a healer arose over payment, usually when there was suspicion that the healer was charging too much. Often the patient could expect to meet the healer at night.28 The sick person would sit or lie on textiles, and the specific ritual that followed would vary with the individual and the approach of that particular healer. The sick patient was often told to cover his or her face in order to avoid seeing the arriving huaca.29 Sometimes the patient swallowed some herbs, or had herbs ritually applied to his or her wounds or body.30 In other cases, the body of the sick person was rubbed with llama fat,31 an act associated with conveying vital force to the sick.32 As it had been for the Taki Onkoy priests, fat was believed to possess life-­enhancing powers. Lying in an Andean healer’s hut, the sick person often heard the healer mumble unintelligibly, a fact that often led later visitators to suspect the involvement of sorcery. Other loci of healings were rivers and corrals. The corral seems to have been valued as a site of healing because it was close to life-­generating powers and offered an open line of sight to surrounding huacas. For example,

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when Xristoval Chumiguaman from Huamantanga treated a sick girl whose illness he attributed to her separation from her old ayllu, he placed her next to his sheep corral and told her to blow certain powders toward it.33 Blowing powders toward sacred loci was a common method of venerating huacas, practiced from Inca times onward.34 In some respects, healings often relied on the concept of “banning” a sickness from the body and from the ayllu, something already familiar from Inca culture. As chapter 1 has shown, Polo de Ondegardo and Cristóbal de Molina both mentioned Inca rituals for washing away sins and expelling sickness. Such rituals, sometimes involving healing alongside a river or pushing the sickness toward a river or canyon (as described in several testimonies in the central Andes), reflected this theme.35 Likewise, the ritual absorption of sickness by a guinea pig that died—or was later burned and offered to a huaca—followed the logic of banning: extracting the illness from the afflicted human body.36 Healers in the central Andes, especially, used guinea pigs, as did religious specialists in Cuzco and Julí. In the hinterland, a hundred years of Spanish penetration did not alter the logic of rituals, though it did create a new category: Spanish sickness, which required Spanish ritual. A handful of religious specialists began to make a distinction between Spanish and Andean forms of sickness and areas of healing expertise. When Xristoval Chumiguaman was brought a sick girl, he said that he didn’t want to treat her because she was suffering from a Spanish sickness. The girl should see a Spaniard, he said, an expert in such diseases. When the girl and her family refused, however, he agreed to attempt to cure the girl, despite his lack of confidence in his and his huaca’s expertise.37 This distinction drawn between, on the one hand, Spanish sickness, Spanish medicine, and the Spanish God and saints, and, on the other hand, Andean sickness, Andean healings, and Andean huacas thus shaped rituals of healing and fertility. In Mangas in 1663, for example, the Andean residents gathered to worship the mummy Aula Atama. They feasted for several days, but they particularly abstained from the “carne de Castilla” (the meat of Castile). Apparently, these Andean religious specialists wanted to enact a strict separation between the old ritual and the novelties of the conqueror’s world. The vision of the juxtaposition of two cultures that had once been voiced by the Taki Onkoy priests and that Andean religious specialists had suggested to Andean commoners as a form of assimilation, was also translated into the world of rituals, at the latest by the

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seventeenth century. No wonder the visitator Noboa complained that the church of Mangas and two nearby chapels lay in ruins.38 Three elements shaped the healing rituals of the Andean highlands. First, as already discussed, was a reliance on huacas for diagnosis and therapy. Second was the act of divination, likewise tied to diagnosis and therapy. And third was the enduring ritual power of certain ob‑ jects and symbols: stones, feathers, colored powders, coca, maize, chicha, and the color white, for example. These Andean symbols often combined the powers of nature, huacas, and historical legacy. Like diagnosis and divination, these symbols were embodied powers and referred human beings to other potent embodied powers, to huacas. During colonial times, healings in the highland regions were thus entirely dependent on the goodwill of huacas, a dependence that manifested itself both directly and indirectly. Healers invoked huacas directly by worshipping and making offerings to them, but huacas were also present in the symbolic language that healers used. Coca, maize, shells, textiles, different colored powders, and different colored wools were all offered to huacas by healers in the central and southern Andes.39 Sometimes, as in Ayaviri in 1692, the religious specialist Juan Flores made his patient carry coca to a huaca in order to sacrifice it.40 Many of these objects were also used in caring for the sick. The arrangement of these items mattered highly, something that visitation protocols and Jesuit sources only allow us to understand on the surface.41 Offerings and healing instruments thus converged, as did diagnosis and therapy. Within this language of symbols, the healer reenacted and reinvigorated the relationship between huacas and patients. Maize, for example, was used in offerings and in healings. Zanco (or sanco [maize cakes]) were offered both to huacas and to the sick, and the zanco was a particularly common rub for the sick body.42 In Yaután, Yaulí, Ondores, Junín, and villages around Trujillo, for example, healers employed maize in their healing rituals or in their offerings to huacas. These villages in the central and northern Andes perhaps reflected the Incas’ high esteem for maize.43 In addition, fat was used both as an offering to the huacas and as an instrument of healing.44 The fats used most frequently in healings and offerings came from llamas and guinea pigs. Healers in the central Andes as well as in and around Cuzco rubbed the bodies of the sick with fat, and also wrapped it around such offerings to huacas as colored powders and coca leaves.45 The use of fat in

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offerings to huacas might have indicated the healer’s desire to activate the positive forces of a huaca (symbolically drawing on its life-­giving forces). It also endowed the ritual act with vital force, as it were, enhancing its performance with (positive) powers. Powders were used both as offerings to huacas and in healing.46 Chicha and coca leaves were the most common offerings.47 Colonial healers—and sometimes patients as well—consumed chicha and coca during the healing ritual. The healer offered chicha to the huaca in a qero or similarly elaborate chalice before drinking it, and also chewed on coca leaves—perhaps to communicate with the huaca. Without examining the individual meaning of each of these items, or drawing on either archaeological or anthropological evidence, we can deduce from their mere use in colonial rituals that Andean healers employed a symbolic language that reestablished the conceptual link between diagnosis and therapy, between the healers’ performance and that of the huacas. The symbolic language of healing rituals connected diagnosis and therapy as well. The use of the guinea pig is representative. In the environs of San Lorenzo de Quinti in the mid-­seventeenth century lived a healer named Lorenço Yaijayauri.48 One day, Yaijayauri was approached on behalf of someone with an unknown illness. He asked the sick person to bring a white guinea pig, coca, a mug of chicha, and a tupo (a pin) of his wife. The healer added some pearls or small stones and an idol to his table of instruments. Then Yaijayauri made the sick person take off his shirt and that of his wife and son. He struck their bodies with the white guinea pig. Afterward, he cut the guinea pig open and ordered that it be thrown into a certain canyon that led to a river. Finally, he prophesied that the sick man would die in three or four years. Though we do not know the fate of the patient, we can see in this story the varied functionality of guinea pigs, which were commonly employed in diagnosis in the central and southern highlands and were also part of the therapy (and sometimes even offerings).49 It was believed that the animal could extract the evil from a sick body by absorbing it. In 1662, Maria Chanchan from a village near Cajatambo confessed to having healed several illnesses with a white guinea pig. An old Indian woman had taught her how to strike the bosom and then the abdomen of the sick person with the animal.50 Back in the late sixteenth century, Polo de Ondegardo attributed divination with guinea pigs to the Andeans who inhabited Inca Chinchaysuyo—that is, the colonial central Andes.51 The religious specialists of San Francisco de Caxamarquilla in the district

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of Cajatambo were still inflating guinea pig entrails for divining health or sickness in 1659.52 As we might expect, the tightly knit web of symbolic references in healing rituals served to reinforce its central function: invoking the huaca’s help in healing, and thereby enhancing a sick person’s access to the huaca’s powers. The symbols thus ultimately expressed the Andean conviction that knowledge of both sickness and healing stemmed from the powers of huacas. Given their pivotal role as healing agents and the pervasiveness of huaca-­centric symbolic references in healing practices, the difficulty of abandoning Andean religion in favor of Catholicism takes on a whole new dimension. The “idols” and stones that visitators found were not the only things keeping huacas at the forefront of Andean consciousness. Such everyday items as coca leaves, fat, maize, and chicha all carried within themselves references to huacas. Among modern-­day healers, the “feeding” of a huaca serves a specific purpose: it is thought that the huaca will consume the despacho, or offering, in place of feeding on the vital powers of the sick human being.53 Almost every colonial highland ritual described in the records involved huaca worship, with Andeans carrying chicha, maize, colored powders, and coca leaves to their huacas. We might therefore wonder whether all colonial highland healing rituals were tied to huacas, and whether sickness always resulted from the wrath of neglected huacas. Colonial Andean evidence does seem to suggest that Andean healers like the Taki Onkoy priests believed that all sicknesses were tied to huacas and that huacas were, in consequence, the key to health. From the standpoint of modern anthropology, this means that during the seventeenth century no difference was perceived between therapy for sicknesses caused by huacas (a loss of spirit) and therapy for “naturally induced” illnesses—a distinction often found in anthropological fieldwork.54 We can only assume that the differentiation arose because of later developments in the colonial experience, reflected early in the division made by some highland healers between Spanish and Andean sicknesses (mentioned above). As we will see in the next chapter, visitators and local priests both tried to distinguish between herbalists and superstitious healers, and as a result religious specialists increasingly assumed the role of “pure” curanderos. These individuals began to internalize the European distinction between naturally induced and huaca-­induced illnesses, ultimately reinterpreting the nature of Andean sickness.

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Reading between the lines of colonial contemporary testimonies, however, we can see that the concept of sickness during the seventeenth century was tied to the notion of the wrath of huacas. Unfortunately, the scattered nature of seventeenth-­century evidence obscures the patterns in healing rituals that might provide clues for a more detailed understanding of the correspondence between particular sicknesses and their symbol-­laden healing implements. From modern anthropologists, we know that today distinctions between “preternatural” and natural sickness, and between different sets of ritual items and healing rituals, are commonly employed.55 (How they evolved in the eighteenth, nineteenth, and even twentieth century is a story for another book.) But during the seventeenth century, the diagnosis of sicknesses and their treatments were derived mainly from an exploration of the huacas’ will—assuming, of course, that the colonial religious specialist was not a professing Christian. In the enormous mound of testimonies demonstrating the pivotal role of local and even personal huacas, one category of huacas seems to offer an especially powerful promise of well-­being. This category is the Inca, supplicated and appeased in colonial Andean highland rituals by references to a standard Inca symbolism.

Reinvigorating the Inca past: The color white The questionnaires of visitators in the Andean highlands exhibited particular concern with colors, perhaps because of Delrío’s remark that too keen an interest in colors could signal a superstitious belief in their power that exceeded the natural characteristics of the colored materials themselves.56 Whatever its cause, their attention is fortunate, for colored powders were crucial to rituals in the central and southern Andes.57 In 1659, visitador Juan Sarmiento de Vivero instigated an investigation of Francisco Malqui from the ayllu Quisoap.58 Malqui was an Indian from the village of Huaroquín in the parish of Atavillos Altos. When the two met, Malqui was an eighty-­year-­old traveling healer who, despite his travels, was unable to speak Spanish. When asked about his hechizos, he answered that he used four colors: blue, yellow, multicolored, and white. Asked what he did with these colors and why he used them, Malqui answered that he put them on top of a stone and blew them toward the “diablo,” saying in Quechua, “I offer this to you, receive this, sister.”59 Blowing colored powders toward the “diablo”—or huaca—would give health to the sick.

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The nature of historical evidence does not permit us to decide whether the powers and meanings of the colored powders mentioned in this and similar cases were believed to lie in the colors themselves or in naturally efficacious substances whose colors were simply accidental. In general, colonial Andean powders were made of shells, coca leaves, herbs, stones, and earthen materials.60 The extant grinding stones from pre-­Inca and Inca cultures vary widely in their size and degree of decoration, depending on their origin; though less is known about examples from colonial times, the large number of these stones indicates the importance of grinding to Andean ritual. During colonial times, the (colored) powders were most often blown toward a huaca. In 1659, Diego Gaxa Guaman used powders—even though he called them “alleluia”—to scare away fog and cold.61 Sometimes they were also used as a veneer, like a paint, for a sacred object. Blowing powders could mean to “restore the friendship with a huaca.”62 Colonial religious specialists held other carriers of colors in great esteem as well, among them colored feathers, colored stones, and colored wools.63 Andean religious specialists used colored feathers, for example, as offerings for the sick, as adornments for mallquis, and as vehicles for love.64 And different colors, regardless of the substance to which they were attached, often drew their power from inherited tradition and memory. Commemoration of the embodied powers in huacas continued to be of prime importance within the world of Andean religious specialists. Unlike the modern world, which highly values novelty, tradition seems to have been accorded special power in the colonial Andean worldview. The colors of archaeological remains, in which the color red predominates, might suggest that the color white was relatively unimportant—a perception only reinforced by the modern-­day emphasis on rainbow colors as representative of Inca and even Andean identity. Yet during colonial times, the color white was held in great esteem.65 Indeed, by itself or in combination with black, it dominated colonial rituals. How and why did this come to be? Had the visitators of seventeenth-­century Peru been readers of Marsilio Ficino, Agrippa von Nettesheim, and Paracelsus, they would have more readily seen the parallels between some European magi and the indigenous religious specialists of the Andes. Among other things, magi and Andean religious specialists shared a particular esteem for the color white. As is well known, Ficino suggested that melancholic scholars should dress in white so as to avoid the negative influences of Saturn. One Spaniard—Diego de la Rosa, sentenced as a chiromancer

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by the Inquisition in Lima—brought Ficino’s advice to the shores of the Pacific. As was customary for some of Europe’s sixteenth-­century erudite magi, de la Rosa dressed in a white robe.66 In the 1560s, the Augustinians of Huamachuco had observed a native priest from the Huarochirí region likewise dressed in white.67 And Guaman Poma depicted the Vilaoma, the Inca high priest, in the Galvin Manuscript in a white manta.68 It is known from the textile records of Inca history that wearing white was one of the privileges of the Incas.69 This symbolic link between the color white and royal dignity was captured in colonial paintings as well as in colonial Andean rituals. Inca coyllas were usually depicted in white dress. Similarly, in a famous depiction of the Inca nobility participating in the procession of Corpus Christi in Cuzco, the Inca nobility stood out by virtue of their white clothing. In addition, when the ruling Inca or his priests sacrificed llamas in honor of the Sun, they chose llamas of an immaculate white color.70 Thus the Incas associated white with royal dignity, valuing it along with red and yellow, the colors of gold and the sun. The latter two colors also played a role in Andean worship: the Huamachuceños painted their noses yellow when they made offerings to the Sun,71 and the huaca Coaquilca was painted a deep vermilion.72 Nevertheless, white seems to have been especially prominent in Andean local cults. Besides being the color of the Incas, it was adopted by certain Andean huacas when they appeared to human beings.73 Cieza de León, for example, described a particular divination ceremony in which a huaca was supposed to appear in white.74 His account was confirmed by seventeenth-­century Jesuits and several visitators, who reported that huacas (the demons) appeared in white to deluded hechi­ zeros.75 The demon that allegedly was seen by Hernando Carvachin, the Indian discussed above, sometimes was dressed in white and at other times took the form of a white dog. Unsurprisingly perhaps, visitators found that religious specialists possessed and supplicated white “idols” especially frequently.76 And ancestor mummies were sometimes covered with white textiles as well.77 Of course, white also played a prominent role in the work of colonial artists. As is well known, the iconography of Santiago Mataindios, who appeared in white riding a white horse, fostered indigenous assimilations of the saint to the frequently white-­clad huacas. This white-­robed Christian iconography extended to other saints as well. Guaman Poma, for example, described Santa María de Peña de Francia, who had mi-

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raculously helped the conquistadors during the time of conquest, as “being totally dressed in a very white dress, ‘whiter’ than snow.”78 For our purposes, it is significant that the representations of Incas during Inca (and colonial) times resemble descriptions of local Andean huacas, as seen by colonial Andean religious specialists. Both appeared in white, as though that color implied more power and a greater state of perfection than did other colors. Some Andean ritual specialists seem to have benefited from this association by dressing themselves in white. But descriptions of the dress of Andean religious specialists, never of great importance to chroniclers, vanish completely by the seventeenth century. Mainly because of their long-­standing association with the splendor of the Incas and huacas, white items were often used in colonial healing rituals. These healing instruments included white maize, as described in the interrogation of an indigenous healer in Quinti in 1660. In other instances, white maize and white guinea pigs played key roles.79 In 1650, a visitator found white powder in the pocket of an hechizero; nine years later, the Catholic clergy found more white powder underneath the bed stall of an indigenous hechizera.80 In 1690, in Junín, a religious specialist was said to have healed the sick by using white maize.81 Previously, the use of white maize and white llamas had been the prerogatives of the Incas.82 But in colonial rituals, white guinea pigs seem to have replaced white llamas. In 1668, a convicted hechizera was said to heal with a white guinea pig, admitting that she did so according to Inca custom.83 In 1700, visitators found white beans in the pockets of yet another hechizero.84 White stones seem to have been particularly important, as Jesuits and visitators found them used as healing instruments across all regions; they turned up in an interrogation of an indigenous healer in 1660 in Quinti, as well as in the white healing stone of García Julcapuma of Trujillo.85 As late as 1771, a Trujillo healer is reported to have used a white stone.86 We don’t know what these stones were, however. Perhaps, they were piedra Huamanga, or alabaster. White salt was also used quite commonly, as by Julcapuma. During Inca times, symbols were crafted from salt. Or a white stone could be like the white huaca in the Huarochirí myth.87 Often white and black were combined in indigenous healing procedures.88 Bernabé Cobo, for example, reported that Indians cleaned the sickroom first with black and then with white maize.89 In 1650, in Pomacocha, it was reported that the Indians had sacrificed a white sheep (perhaps a llama), followed by

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a black one.90 Regardless of the sequence of colors, which seems to have been an individual decision, the pairing reflects the logic of duality in the Andean world. During the colonial period, white dresses, white maize, white guinea pigs, and white stones all suggested symbolism that was Inca as well as contemporary and pre-­Inca or pan-­Andean. Indeed, as historians we see that during colonial times, the use of white was pan-­Andean—not confined to the Inca heartland, but referring implicitly and explicitly to the Inca past. Thus, not only the Andean but also the Inca heritage heavily influenced some Andean rituals during colonial times. Some healers directly supplicated the deceased Incas, addressing them as intercessors who could provide health and fertility. This trust in Incas is yet another element of Andean religiosity that survived Spanish and Creole persecution to ultimately resurface during the eighteenth century. It seems to have gained prominence during the seventeenth century. In 1646, Don Jerónimo Auquivinan of Yaután confessed to possessing a crystalline stone called mayguanco, given to him by an old Inca aclla (a chosen virgin).91 He thought that it would bring luck and prove powerful. In 1660, Maria Guanico, who owned a white idol, implored the Inca to take away sickness.92 In 1668, Don Pedro Inga from Ondores led others in ancient fertility rituals. His name suggests Inca heritage, and he confessed to having followed Inca customs. One day he exhumed a forefather who had a kernel of maize in his mouth and was wrapped in colored wool.93 In the central and southern highlands, at least, those who continued to practice Inca customs believed they would gain health, positive powers, luck, and riches. During colonial times, Andean religious specialists consciously or unconsciously achieved two things in their healing (and divinatory) rituals. First, through the symbolic makeup and symbolic language of those rituals, they expressed the continued dependence of human beings on huacas for their health and well-­being. This symbolic web of references, designed to reflect the inherited and continuously reimagined wishes of huacas (in terms of colors, maize, coca leaves, and so on), carried a system of Andean logic through the crisis of colonization. As years passed under colonial rule, Andeans continued to know that the fate of human beings was tied to the huacas’ will. One crucial dimension of this referential web was the symbols that made diagnosis and therapy converge in supplication to huacas. It cannot be decided whether the distinction between naturally induced and huaca-­induced

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sicknesses is a pre-­Columbian artifact of some local, regional culture or a product of the early or late colonial, or even modern, period. Second, over the years some Andean healers preserved a memory of the Incas that highlighted their alleged positive powers. The Incas in their rituals are remembered and reimagined with nothing but positive features; they are glorified for their promise of health and luck. Thus, this “vision from below,” from the everyday practitioners of Andean rituals in the rural south-­central Andes in the second half of the seventeenth and early eighteenth century, adds to our understanding of the sociopolitical history of the eighteenth-­century Andes and our understanding of the fertile social ground on which those rebellions that implored a glorious Inca past fell.94 But esteem for the color white seems to have been rooted in more than its association with the ruling Incas. It was, in addition, the color of huacas and was privileged both before the Incas and across the Andes. Another interesting element of Peruvians’ relationship with their Inca past is that high regard for the Incas was susceptible to transmission. Afro-­Peruvian and Spanish ritual specialists followed their Andean contemporaries as they began to trust in the powers of the Incas. As will be shown, now they began to turn to Incas for protection, not only from sickness but from evil spells as well.

Chapter Seven

Andean Notions of Nature and Harm, and the Disempowerment of Andean Healers

In the late sixteenth and early seventeenth centuries, Jesuits competed with hechizeros as ychuris, or confessors. At the same time, and increasingly toward the end of the seventeenth century, they competed with them as curanderos.1 The order tried to replace the indigenous religious specialist in his role as a healer, arguing that the demon would keep the Indians in a terrible state of sickness.2 Providing medical help in a spiritual and physical sense was one way to serve conversion.3 As the seventeenth century ended, the Andean-­Christian dialogue in general, not only the Jesuit portion, shifted its focus from idolatry to nature, medicine, and what the Spanish and Creole clergy and the defen­ sores de los indios held to be legitimate dealings with the natural.4 This shift was driven by a number of transcultural processes.5 First, Spanish and Creole scholars developed a new kind of natural philosophy and began to share the naturalist and even antiquarianist interests of their European counterparts. Second, Spanish and Afro-­American concepts and practices of maleficio (evil sorcery), obeying the laws of sympathetic magic, spread through colonial society. (Both these points are discussed further in this chapter.) These new notions of maleficio, which resulted both from Spanish interpretations and from cultural exchanges between Afro-­Peruvian and Spanish or Creole ritual specialists and Andean religious specialists, indirectly prompted a new kind of scholarly rationalism even as they affected Andean concepts, rituals, and ritual objects. New instruments of evil redefined the meanings of an array of Andean symbols. In the end, these new instruments, practices, and concepts disturbed the social cohesion of Andean society and channeled expressions of social conflict in new directions. Sympathetic magic challenged the preexisting logic of the Andean concept of nature. It also altered the role of religious specialists in their society. In

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some instances, as commoners and religious specialists alike started to believe in the existence of sympathetic magic, the religious specialist turned into a healer, particularly of maleficios. Within the welter of transcultural exchanges, the trajectory of Iberian and Afro-­Peruvian concepts and practices of maleficio is truly exceptional. Until the eighteenth century, no other practice so frequently crossed from non-­Andean cultures to Andean ones. More often, influence worked in the opposite direction—from Andean to Spanish and Afro-­Peruvian specialists—perhaps because Spanish, Creole, and Afro-­ Peruvian hechizeros depended on powerful objects found in their environment, which was necessarily South American. The Spanish, Creole and Afro-­Peruvian response to coca leaves, Andean herbs, and guinea pigs evolved in the opposite direction of the response to American products in continental Europe. There, materia médica, but not the beliefs originally associated with it, transcended cultural barriers. In Peru, instead, the nonnative ritual specialists adopted beliefs in potent Andean entities such as the Incas or specific huacas. Among the oppressed of colonial Peru, therefore, the Incas came to epitomize well-­being. Animosity, envy, and the many other emotions that underlay the rise of maleficio seemed to proliferate more easily than concepts of Christian love, the Andean ayni (reciprocity), or the African equivalent. Was all of this a consequence of the conquest? It is the task of other historians and anthropologists to find out whether hatred always spreads as the result of conquest, be it by Spaniards, Incas, or others. We are about to investigate the diffusion of new ways to express animosity and how, against the background of colonial developments, the new ways to express animosity affected society. In tracing these intricate processes, we will focus on two main questions. First, how did one or more new notions of maleficio enter the former Inca mainland and make a lasting impact on indigenous practices and beliefs? And second, for purposes of comparison, how did love magic transgress preexisting cultural boundaries? Answers will require an understanding not just of how European demonology was introduced to the Andes (see chapter 4) but also of how Andeans defined evil sorcery and how this concept changed under the influence of the Spanish and the Afro-­Peruvian heritage. Such an understanding must draw on testimonies from the sixteenth to the eighteenth centuries. Therefore, our investigations will begin with Inca and early colonial Andean concepts of knowledge about nature—the flip side of the Inca and Andean notions of harm. From early on, Spanish attitudes toward

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the natives’ knowledge were ambivalent. On one hand, Spaniards longed for their expertise about the properties of natural things. On the other, Spaniards discriminated against the indigenous experts. In this early period, chroniclers identified Andean tools and rituals as agents of evil by equating them with European and Afro-­Peruvian instruments of witchcraft. These early European concepts serve as mirrors that enable the historian to trace the beginning of cultural exchanges between ritual specialists from different cultural backgrounds. They also explain why the members of the Society of Jesus ultimately attempted to replace religious specialists in Andean society by assuming their role (an issue discussed in the next chapter). This chapter serves three purposes: change and resistance in the Andean notion of harm, offering light from another perspective on the campaigns aimed at extirpating idolatry in Lima during the second half of the seventeenth century, and, through its findings, directing us toward the final chapter, on the denouement of the discourse on hechi­ zería in Peru in the metropolis and its flare-­up in the peripheries. The new Spanish, Afro-­Peruvian, and Indian suspicions and apparent practices of maleficio triggered action by a priest in Llata in 1723 and in Arahuay (Canta) in 1741, by local governors in Arequipa in 1751 and in Cajamarca in 1776, by the Audiencia in Quito in the 1730s, by a local clergyman in Cuzco in 1748, by notaries of idolatries in Trujillo in 1771, and by the owners of an hacienda in Piura in 1832.6 They all lodged accusations of maleficio of a certain type.

Inca herbalists and their twofold expertise While Cuzco was still boasting of its Inca heritage, quipucamayocs remembered Ymaymana Viracocha and Inca Mayta Capac as outstanding connoisseurs of herbs. This knowledge was considered crucial to Inca society. In 1574–75, Cristóbal de Molina had heard that one of Viracocha’s sons, Ymaymana Viracocha, was appointed to “give names to small and big trees . . . and to show the people which plants were edible and which ones had medical qualities; he also named herbs and flowers and designated the times when they should carry fruits. He taught the people the healing properties of certain plants and the lethal effects of others.”7 Ymaymana Viracocha’s heirs, according to Molina, were all those Indians who escaped the torrents of a river or other perilous situations, having encountered a demon who instructed them in the prop-

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erties of plants.8 Another outstanding figure in Inca history familiar with the secret properties of shrubs, plants, and trees was the fourth Inca, Mayta Capac. Owing to his unusual birth, Inca Mayta Capac was a frightful person.9 According to Sarmiento, he had been born only three months after conception. But instead of being weak, the Inca possessed invincible strength. As a one-­year-­old boy he was strong as an eight-­ year-­old. No enemies or obstacles could stand in his way. Sarmiento de Gamboa had been informed by quipucamayocs that Mayta Capac also possessed extraordinary wisdom and the gift of looking into the future—an ability he allegedly owed to the indi, the prophetic bird that Manco Capac had handed down to his heirs.10 The Inca had foreseen the advent of the gospel and the twist between Huascar and Atahualpa long before both were born and long before they decided to take up arms against each other. According to Pachacuti, Mayta Capac became a ferocious Inca “extirpator of idolatries” avant la lettre.11 With or without the indi—according to Pachacuti, he did not need such a bird— Mayta Capac was also an exceptional authority on medical plants.12 Knowledge of lethal and salubrious herbs was thus worthy of a mighty entity and a ruling Inca.13 In Tawantinsuyo, profound herbal knowledge was a clear sign of distinction and in some instances provided access to power. It motivated the chronicler in exile, Garcilaso de la Vega (1539–1616), to style Inca and other Andean wise men as experimentalists worthy of an implicit comparison with such European naturalists as Francis Bacon. But according to Garcilaso, Inca herbalists lacked the theoretical reasoning he considered indispensable for a novel experimentalism. In his view, Not knowing how to write, the Incas had little knowledge of astronomy and of natural history. There were of course among them enlightened minds capable of philosophizing about subtle things, but since they were unable to write anything down, their discoveries disappeared with them. . . . The philosophy of nature was entirely absent from their thinking, their lives being so simple that there was no incentive to reflect on the secrets of nature. They were able to recognize the qualities of the elements, such as cold and dryness of the earth, or heat and dryness of fire, but this they learned from everyday experience, not from either science or philosophy. Having little leaning towards speculation, they gave no thought to what they could not touch with their hands.14

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He also described the professional doctors who “handed down their science and knowledge of medicinal herbs from father to son, and were the appointed doctors to the king, to all persons of royal blood and to the curacas and their families: the ordinary run of humanity took care of one another, according to their limited knowledge of medicine. This, then, was their notion of medicine, and it was based principally on the use of healing herbs.”15 The erudite Garcilaso de la Vega, with his Andean upbringing, was torn between his admiration for (and desire to justify) Inca knowledge and his scholarly disdain. This ambivalence undoubtedly shaped his entire life. Garcilaso consciously omitted the dual nature of indigenous knowledge, which comprised mastery over both beneficial and lethal plants. A similarly one-­sided approach, though with the opposite emphasis, is taken by Felipe Guaman Poma de Ayala, who emphasized the specialist in evil: the hampicoc.16 According to him, when Mayta Capac, Pachacuti, and the other Incas were still in power, they safeguarded their society against the hampicocs (those who gave potions) by imposing capital punishment. If we are to believe the author, the Incas killed the hampicocs and their entire families, sparing only the newborn babies. A milder punishment was to throw the delinquent into the zankay, a prison for particularly serious misdeeds.17 If he survived, he was a free man. Likewise, Murúa added his own caption to Guaman Poma’s image of an old woman stirring unknown ingredients in a qero, casting it in an ominous light: “Because she is a great hechizera . . . she gives poison and kills the Indians from this land.”18 In another picture, Murúa added, “[the] hambicamayo, a great hechizero and herbalist.”19 Polo de Ondegardo mentioned some hechizeros who were skilled “in preparing potions of herbs and roots to kill the one to whom they are given. There are herbs and roots that will kill over a long period of time. Others kill immediately, depending on the mixture and the formula.”20 José de Acosta already had this kind of information with reference to Chachapoyan hechizeros.21 Some Spanish civil servants thought that indigenous hechizeros purposefully concealed their knowledge about plants, especially poisonous ones.22 Indirectly these authors disapproved of a scholar like Juan de Cárdenas, who derided Spanish and indigenous concerns about the bocado—a term that both denotes the poison mingled with food and also serves as a synonym for being bewitched.23 But in writing Problemas y secretos maravillosos de las Indias, Juan de Cárdenas was concentrating on Mexico, not Peru. According to his

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Peruvian contemporaries, indigenous attacks with poisons or some bo­ cado were historical facts and, even worse, a dire present reality. Early Quechua specialists found nine words detailing various kinds of poisons and different ways to poison someone, using the toxin from different plants and animals.24 In Julí in 1606, by contemporary Spanish standards an already “civilized” piece of land, Jesuits felt compelled to comment on an hechizero who was unable to control his urge to mix poisons. The delinquent managed to escape from prison.25 When Franciscan monks and Jesuit priests set up their missions in what is today the Bolivian and Paraguayan lowlands and along the tributaries of the Amazon River, the newcomers calculated the risks of their enterprise. Soldiers accompanied them on their boats and into the forests,26 but sometimes provided spotty protection against the poisoned arrows with which some Indians tried to ward off the approaching change.27 Some missionaries are reported to have died during these encounters, and thus martyrs were made.28 By the late seventeenth and early eighteenth centuries, more and more people of all colors came to blame their sickness on their having been made a victim of a bocado—either through poison or some form of bewitchment that involved hairs, toads, puppets, chickens, or waxen figures.29 As late as 1771, Vicente Urbano Zambrago, a priest in Curahuasi, Cuzco, wrote a weepy letter to his bishop detailing his misery.30 He had been in disharmony with his congregation for a long time. Therefore, he asserted, people had cast a spell on him that caused his horrible brain tumor to grow. The priest was certain: “Some pious and trustworthy people told me that I have been a victim of a maleficio or evil spell that has been cast by this village.” Urbano Zambrago was dismissed from his office. Even though modern Andean myths claim that the layqa, the pure brujo—in other words, pure evil—does exist, hardly any anthropologist has ever encountered him or her in a hamlet in the central or southern highlands.31 Today, modern-­day altomisayuqs from the Cuzco region perform a ritual called the kuti that serves to send a spell back to the one who sent it.32 Yet testimonies call into doubt belief in a purely evil hechizero in the early colonial period. Rather, a religious specialist was thought to have command over poisons and salubrious herbs. The translators of the Quechua term hampi—unlike Guaman Poma in his representation of the hampicamayoc—grasped the Janus-­faced idiosyncrasy of indigenous knowledge.33 González Holguín translated hampi “medicine and poison” and “bocado con ponzoña.”34 An anonymous author made hampi denote both the herbalist and the (evil) hechizero.35

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According to them, and like Ymaymana, whose knowledge of secrets encompassed beneficial herbs as well as poisonous plants, the herbalist had the power to kill and to bestow a blessing.36 Therefore, the fathers of the Second Council of Lima considered the knowledge of the indigenous herbalist a potential blessing.

A project full of hope: The indigenous herbalist and Sahagún’s influence on Peru In 1567, six bishops and two archbishops of Peru made the long journey from Charcas, Quito, Santiago de Chile, and other places to gather for the Second Council of Lima on March 2. Despite rumors about evil hechizeros and despite the experiences of missionaries with poisoned arrows, the dignitaries pictured a utopia for colonial Peru, foreseeing the indigenous religious specialist in the service of colonial society. He or she was to act almost like the scientists that Bacon would envision only forty-­seven years later for his Bensalem. In 1567, the head of the Franciscan province, Fray Juan del Campo (who died in 1584), supervised the council’s sessions, and while the clergy waited behind lofty balconies overlooking Lima’s main plaza, the bishops compromised on edict number 110.37 It formulated the unusual idea of the good indigenous herbalist—unusual only in the context of the orders of the First Lima Council in 1551 and those of its successor in 1583, but quite in line with European, and in particular Iberian, precedents, and especially the Mexican and Franciscan example.38 The Second Council claimed to introduce the distinction between an indigenous herbalist, good and pure, and an evil sorcerer. In the future, the indigenous herbalists, her­ bolarios, were to reject all their superstitions and thus abandon their idols. For the public good, they were to share their knowledge about medicinal plants. Each herbalist was to employ herbs whose properties had been learned through experience (that is, not through the devil). At the same time, he or she was to forget all knowledge of poisonous plants. Showing an optimistic spirit, the authors of the decree voiced the hope that “these medical doctors [médicos] could be very useful in healing sicknesses” in colonial society. Whether the indigenous herbalists were to heal fellow Indians or even Spaniards and Creoles, and whether they were to assist in Lima’s or Cuzco’s hospitals for Indians, Afro-­Peruvians, and poor priests, we have no way of knowing. The Second Council of Lima foresaw the indigenous herbalist as a remedy to a manifest social ill. From the time of the conquest onward,

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Lima and Cuzco lacked well-­trained Spanish doctors, and the cities were allegedly swamped with “charlatans.”39 Throughout the sixteenth century, the Spanish protomedicato that supervised doctors was unable to alleviate the shortage of medical doctors or “licentiates,”40 who alone were considered reliable healers.41 Nuns apparently discriminated against Andean healers because they lacked a license.42 But the scarcity of medical doctors outlived the Second Council and the establishment of chairs for medicine in Lima in 1635 and in 1660.43 The idea of the pure herbalist was not a Peruvian invention. But one aspect was new in Peru: this herbalist was to be an indigenous person, operating legitimately in public. Inspirations for the Franciscan idea to use indigenous herbalists in colonial society came from both Spain and Mexico.44 By the time the fathers of the Second Council of Lima had gathered, the Spanish herbolario—the unlicensed folk healer—was a long-­established institution. Martín de Castañega and Pedro de Ciruelo both acclaimed herbalists for curing sick patients with the occult powers of herbs and stones. Of course, defining which approaches were to be considered natural and which were not was not always easy. The herbolario was the counterpart of the demonic magician and sometimes required supervision.45 By the year 1567, the Franciscan Bernardino de Sahagún was already collecting materia médica from the Nahua.46 Ten years later, the friar made the finishing touches to his project of collecting indigenous knowledge about the properties of plants. New Spain and the Caribbean became a hotspot for naturalists and botanists, who tried to profit from indigenous knowledge.47 Francisco Hernández was sent out to the gardens in Atzcapotzalco, Texcoco, and Huaxtepec in the 1570s. New Spain’s monasteries planted herbal gardens analogous to Leiden’s university garden.48 Antonio de Villasante held the monopoly in herbs from Española. It is thus not surprising that European botanists, collectors of curiosities, deft tradesmen, and pirates all fostered an interest in foreign herbs that soon made obsolete the struggle over gold.49 But developments in Peru took a different course. Territories south of the equator saw neither a Sahagún nor a Hernández, nor the Libellus de medicinalibus indorum herbis (ca. 1552) by Martín de la Cruz and Juan Badiano.50 Little is known of the Peruvian Pedro de Osma Jaraycejo, who informed Nicolas Monardes about Peruvian plants.51 In the 1560s, Peruvian Spanish, Creole, and European scholars admired one unnamed plant for its capacity to indicate whether a patient was to die or live, and its use by an Indian woman saved the wife of Viceroy Conde de Nieva from despair.52 One

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of the more prolific early Peruvian authors to benefit from the wave of European interest in New World vegetation was Cieza de León, but he remained focused primarily on the Incas and indigenous customs, spelling out the uses of only a few plants in detail.53 All the same, as elsewhere in the colonized world, Spanish officials in Peruvian towns filled out the questionnaires of the Council of the Indies as it collected information about indigenous plants, often bemoaning the inferior taxonomy among indigenous people.54 And Jesuits carried specimens in boxes across the Atlantic that found their way into Europe’s botanical gardens, and into the collection of botanists such as Paul Ammann, Nikolaus Basse, Jakob Plateaus, Charles L’Ecluse, Caspar Bauhin, and Jacob Breyn.55 (This is discussed at greater length in the next chapter.) Despite the widespread interest in New World plants, the hopes of Peru’s bishops that South America’s greatest plant experts could be put in service of society were never fulfilled. Their efforts resulted instead in a wider gap between Franciscan and Jesuit ideas of how to deal with indigenous knowledge about nature. Only a handful of visitators tried to distinguish the superstitious healer from the herbolario, and only in secret did herbolarios join the workforce in Lima’s hospitals (about which we know so little). To be sure, individual bishops allowed indigenous healers to work in hospitals,56 and religious specialists, in their defense against visitators, began to present themselves as curan­ deros.57 These developments were indeed indirect results of the Second Council of Lima. But generally speaking, the vision of utopia remained short-­lived because Jesuits forcefully intervened when they gained political power, replacing trust in indigenous crafts with distrust in their moral integrity. As we have already seen, the Third Council’s official proclamations did not renew decree number 110 but labeled hechi­ zeros ministers of the devil, requiring seclusion and reeducation. The Jesuit-­inspired council did not envision that reeducation as involving the hechizero becoming an herbalist who could alleviate a chronic shortage of medical doctors.58 According to Arriaga, attempts to convert the hechizero into an herbolario were difficult—almost futile.59 And Villagómez called for the persecution of curanderos. This distrust was fueled by the rampant fear of idolatry—that is, demonology—and was also founded on dubious claims about “the” Andean usage of fat, puppets, toads, and hair and thus on alleged Andean concepts of maleficio that, in fact, reflected both European interpretation and transcultural exchanges.

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Fat, puppets, and the introduction of sympathetic magic to the Andes The Augustinians of Huamachuco—Martín de Murúa, Guaman Poma de Ayala, and José de Arriaga—identified the major ways in which indigenous hechizeros inflicted harm: they used worm-­growing herbs; fashioned figures out of (black) wax or fat, toads, hairs, and pierced objects; and placed carriers of evil under the thresholds of houses. Although Murúa and Guaman Poma were in political terms insignificant, their writings do reveal four things. First, they suggest how European observers formulated concepts about indigenous practices. Second, they capture Andean practices. Third, they hint at early colonial practices that were Spanish and perhaps even Afro-­Peruvian, not Andean. Fourth, they capture early adaptations among ritual specialists from different cultural backgrounds. I argue that some aspects of the Spanish representation of how Andeans inflicted harm mirrored ideas about European practices, but also corresponded with practices of Spanish and Afro-­Peruvian ritual specialists in Andean territories.60 Spanish and, to a certain extent, African practices both built on the belief in sympathetic magic, a kind of magic that operates through correspondences between objects and human beings.61 Only in the late seventeenth and early eighteenth centuries did these beliefs and accompanying practices appear in Andean rituals. Before the arrival of colonists, they were not known in the Andes. In the 1560s, the Augustinians of Huamachuco commented on two main indigenous methods of inflicting harm, one involving a deadly herb that produced worms and the other a ritual that involved fat, fire, and demons; both could be fatal. The Augustinians had once had an indigenous servant named Marcos.62 One day he was found dead. Immediately, the Augustinians began to investigate, and they concluded that Marcos had been murdered by a worm-­growing herb. According to the Augustinians, his fellow Indians hated Marcos because he had collaborated with the friars. Indeed, Marcos had proven himself an exceptionally gifted informant. Even after his death, the Augustinians continued to collect information on what they thought were indigenous killing methods. Usually, they said, “evil herbalists” would take fat, light a fire, and call on the devil when they intended to kill a chief. While they burned the fat, they waited for the devil to appear in an image. The devil in the image would then reveal the person to whom he had given the

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(lethal) herb and whose children would eventually take revenge on the provider of this lethal herb (likely the hechizero was meant, but not the devil). These evil herbalists even offered to initiate the Augustinians in the secrets of this particular art. Of course, the Augustinians declined, “because it was a great evil and hechizería,” but their curiosity was not yet satisfied. They kept investigating another unnamed noxious plant and its antidote, the contrahierba. The ritual ran thus: when an indigenous person thought that he or she was bewitched through poisonous plants, he or she would gather the lethal and the healing plant, hold both of them in front of his or her eyes, and murmur “a, a quítame los hechizos” (ah, ah take the spells away). The reporting Augustinian was uncertain as to whether the good effects were produced by the devil or by the herb, but he immediately praised God for having spared the Augustinians from this threat. When the Augustinians wrote down their notion of evil herbalists, they also alluded to some hechizeros throwing a “chunk of fat” into a fire in which an “image” (the devil) then appeared. The Augustinians thought that the devil began to talk to the hechizero through the fire, telling the hechizero who had killed whom with a lethal herb.63 A generation later, Guaman Poma alluded to a similar kind of ritual that involved fat, fire, and the demon when he mentioned some Inca officials (laycaconas, umoconas, vizaconas, and camascaconas) who threw, among other things, the fat of some person into the fire in order to talk to the devil.64 In Guaman Poma’s illustration, this fire-­pot hechizero was featured prominently. The object of the diabolical conversation was either to unite a man and a woman or to murder some third party. For the latter the devil instructed the hechi­ zero to give the person of hatred a poisoned potion. As in the Augustinian version, the bringer of harm was poison or a lethal herb. Fire was a common element in Inca religious ceremonies. Huayna Capac honored Inti by erecting a golden pot in front of the image of the Sun in the Qoricancha and throwing painted pieces of wood into the fire.65 When Yupanqui emptied chicha into the fire in the Qoricancha, it was believed that Inti was eating.66 Murúa thought that the chicha poured out into the fire served to appease this angry god of fire.67 Sarmiento had been told that in certain sacrifices, the meat of llamas was put into the fire, and he mentioned in passing that the sacrifice to the Sun required a fire in which certain animals were burned.68 As other references show, fire in Inca ceremonies was interpreted as a means of communicating with the gods, and especially with Inti, the Sun.69 As Molina reported, fire was also associated with men who were diviners

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in the Inca regime. So-­called viropiricos divined the future by examining fires and things burned in them, including llamas and coca.70 More prominent were the yacarcaes, usually from Huaro, who (according to Molina) consulted the demon in the fire on behalf of the Inca. Such questioning was intended to reveal loyalty and betrayal among the Inca’s subjects.71 But fire on its own did not arouse unusual suspicion among Spanish observers. They focused instead on the fat. As with borracheras, villca, or chi­cha, the fat in the fire was immediately identified by the Spaniards with the brewing of a hallucinogen. Guaman Poma’s summary is typical: “[O]ther hechizeros take fat from a lamb, from a snake, from a lion, and from other animals, and [add] maize, blood, chicha, and coca, and burn all of it and make the demons talk out of the fire, [and] they [the hechizeros] consult them [the demons]. The latter answer and tell them what to do, what happens, and through them they know.”72 Unlike natural philosophers in Europe who praised a hallucinogen like opium almost as a gift of heaven, Spaniards in colonial Peru were less tentative and more precise in describing the various kinds of Andean hallucinogens.73 Even the common idea that a healer would suck stones, toads, and snakes out of a sick person’s body might be understood as a Creole and perhaps already Andean rendition of the mind-­altering effects of hallucinogens. Bernabé Cobo delivered the key for this interpretation.74 Sometimes Jesuits gave accounts of inhaling Echinopsis pachanoi (San Pedro cactus) and drew conclusions about demonic activities.75 In general, however, their language remained allusive—with the exception of one early chronicler. In Murúa’s writings, finally, the fat thrown into a fire was no longer a replacement for something unknown or to be fearfully concealed: it turned into an object of sympathetic magic. Murúa transformed the indistinct chunk of fat into a figure out of wax and into a “simulacrum.” Murúa reported that if an indigenous hechizero wanted to harm someone else, he or she either wrapped a given figure in the clothes of the intended victim or fabricated a figure out of wax or mud that was then thrown into the fire, in the belief that its melting or hardening would inflict evil (or retaliate against evil).76 Similarly, Cieza de León drew attention to a waxen figure that was wielded in an Andean fertility ritual, which he had also associated with the devil.77 But Cieza did not speculate that it was connected with causing harm. In the first decade of the seventeenth century, Arriaga reported that the Indians of Parquin (near Cajatambo) tried to cast a spell on the visitator Fernando

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de Avendaño: they burned a waxen figure in an attempt to destroy the priest’s soul before he reached their village. Arriaga added that Indians used two different kinds of fat, depending on the race of the victim. To harm an Indian required the fat of the llama, whereas the puppet representing the Spaniard was molded out of pig fat.78 Thus the distinction between insider and outsider—here, between Spaniards and Andeans—again structured Andean logic. But was the concept of the waxen puppet as carrier of an evil spell truly Andean? As we have already seen, various Andean cultures crafted differ­ent types of figures. Some of them were wrapped in fine textiles. The In‑ dians of San Francisco de Caxamarcilla arrayed zaramama, or Mother Maize, in a lliclla (a fine cloth) in hopes of increasing fertility.79 Extant are silver and gold, dressed and naked Inca figures, Pachacamac’s golden figurines wrapped in feathers, wooden statuettes from various coastal cultures, Pikillaqta’s priests made of turquoise, and the woven “dolls” from the Chancay culture, to name but a few.80 Archaeologists have argued that these figures represented ayllus or replaced a human sacrifice to the huacas, since they were sometimes found in burials and on mountaintops. From an archaeological perspective, these objects are the only ones that come close to Murúa’s waxen or clay figures.81 But along with Arriaga, Murúa argued that the small figures used in Andean rituals were designed to inflict harm. Indeed, since antiquity, European scholars writing on folk magic abhorred waxen simulacra used for various reasons. The Siete partidas prohibited waxen images for the purpose of love magic.82 Martín Delrío, Francisco Torreblanca Villalpando, Jean Bodin, and Johannes Wier all traced their histories from classical to contemporary literature.83 In 1599, Delrío’s Disquisi­ tionum magicarum libri sex stated that it was possible to inflict harm via a puppet made of wax or pierced with nails.84 In Peru, the idea of a European-­type simulacrum molded out of fat seems to have developed from the description of fat as Andean offerings to the huacas or as identified with the brewing of hallucinogens. Murúa might simply have interpreted an Andean practice in the light of European literature on magic and hearsay about Spanish, Creole, and black hechizeros suggesting that the figurines that got burnt were intended to inflict harm. He might also have relied on a yet unknown source. Arriaga’s interpretation of 1621, possibly inspired by Delrío, came to shape politics. More than a generation later, in 1668, Peña Montenegro, an avid reader of Delrío, also interpreted pierced puppets as an instrument of harm of the native hechizeros.85

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For the duration of the seventeenth century, fat continued to be required in different kinds of Andean rituals of healing, divination, offerings to the huaca, and the like, bestowing life-­giving powers on sick bodies, yllas, and the acts of religious specialists.86 We have already explored its meaning in previous chapters. But alongside this tradition, some indigenous people began to adopt the idea of the simulacrum as a carrier of evil, endowing evil with life. The waxen puppet as an instrument of harm—perhaps made of fat—appears in indigenous contexts only in late seventeenth- and early eighteenth-­century visitation records, as a result of a recent cultural transfer.87 Before then, attempts to inflict harm with a puppet were either an interpretation of Spanish chroniclers or were executed by Spanish and some Afro-­Peruvian ritual specialists (the latter perhaps belonged to the Yoruba or the Dahomey), or were perhaps the earliest shadows of transcultural processes that had been going on in the coastal areas of Peru.88 In the colonial Caribbean— and in different form in colonial Brazil—voodoo practices originated in the context of slavery.89 In Peru, as early as 1547, the Audiencia of Lima convicted a black person because he had allegedly attempted to kill his master by casting a spell on a piece of wool that he took from his master’s pillow. The culprit had put the enchanted object under the saddle of his owner.90 In the same hearing, an indigenous hechizero was prosecuted for his treacherous use of poison. From 1689 to 1694, in Chupaca in Peru, a figure made out of black wax caused great suspicion among indigenous people. The vicar general of Lima, Don Francisco de Cisneros y Mendoza, and the ecclesiastical judge of Xauxa, Don Antonio Martínez Guerra, brought to light several facts about the alleged murder of Sebastiana Surichaca. The mulatto woman Catalina Balbuena and the native María de la Vega both suspected that a black waxen figure was responsible for Sebastiana’s death. Given that Sebastiana had rested in various beds under which a waxen figure was concealed, their guess seemed to make sense. Under one of them, for example, the visitator found “a figure made out of wax with two crossed arms,” next to coca, maize, fat, tobacco, a black figure, a pierced figure, hairs, and silk. The whole village was considered the base of a sect of hechizeros, and many of its inhabitants were indeed involved in dubious practices. Among those convicted was Juan Solso, an Indian from Hatun Xauxa, who was accused of having used “pierced toads and coca” for evil sorcery. He had the power to send fireballs across the sky. Hearsay had it that Augustina Gonzales used toads and snakes for her maleficios and brujerías. A woman named Juliana Cata-

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caos was convicted for having taught brujerías. María Micaela had set up a waxen figure and had inflicted harm by piercing some toads. Several of her patients died in the course of her “healings.” Finally, Teresa de Aguado was convicted of being an hechizera and bruja. When she went to a river, she dressed a toad with a shirt. That toad was found in one of her bags, tied to a pole. Coca, fat, a dog made out of glass, and a dead bird were also among her belongings. Most of the people convicted in Chupaca were ultimately banned from their plots of land. More important in this context is that the figure made out of black wax was blamed for Sebastiana Surichaca’s death and that people believed that evil could be brought by a puppet and pierced toads.91 But even though the majority of Chupaca Indians were involved in rituals that were obviously unknown to nearby natives from Cajatambo, two victims in Chupaca gave what we might call an Andean explanation of Sebastiana’s mishap. Maria Luisa Cocobola called attention to Libiac, the thunder deity, as the master over evil. Don Cristóbal, who trusted in the curative properties of his guinea pigs, believed that bewitching could occur yet argued that Santiago, the new face of the god of thunder, healed his patients. Among the Chupaca, beliefs in sympathetic magic, Libiac, Santiago, and other huacas as the embodiments of good and evil all coexisted.92 Chupaca was a multiethnic village.93 Suspicions of maleficio were particularly likely to surface in those areas where Afro-­Peruvians lived and worked next to Indians and Spaniards.94 Owing to the scanty source material available and the volatile nature of beliefs, we can only roughly gauge the geographical and chronological impact of Spanish and Afro-­Peruvian concepts of maleficio on Andeans. The coast, one of the primary contact zones between the different cultures, was where the highest concentration of Afro-­Peruvians was found.95 In 1636, almost 50 percent of Lima’s population was Afro-­Peruvian.96 And it was along the coast that the transformation of indigenous religious specialists into healers of maleficios was most conspicuous. In this highly heterogeneous society, suspicions of maleficio thrived, because racial prejudices often turned into accusations of harm done.97 A representative case of such racial bias is an episode that occurred in the fishing village of Huarmey.98 On December 5, 1650, Pedro de Villagómez visited it to determine what had happened, tracking down a number of fishermen who were not very talkative. Francisco Guaman, a native nicknamed Pescador, had died. Another Indian named Juan de Paz, reputedly a wise man and knowledgeable about “who inflicted harm,” had visited Francisco shortly be-

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fore his death. The healer advised Francisco to get help to recover from his “hechisos.” Supposedly, Francisco was a victim of evil spells, cast by Santiago Tanedor because he envied Francisco’s crayfish. Santiago Tanedor was said to have previously inflicted harm on Francisco, who had maltreated Santiago on the Plaza de Armas. When Francisco sought to force Tanedor to heal him, the latter denied he was responsible for the illness. Villagómez’s hearing leaves unclear what Tanedor had done wrong. But one witness voiced his suspicion that two mulattos had killed Francisco. So who, if anyone, had caused the fisherman’s death? The visitator did not disentangle the animosities between the men, but handed their case over to the civil courts.99 Natives and Spaniards alike commonly held blacks to be specialists in matters of evil.100 Even San Martín de Porres’s nickname, “mulatto brujo,” resonates with this sharp prejudice. Exceptionally, he was later declared a saint. Another telling illustration of continuing suspicions of blacks is an incident that occurred in Esmeraldas, off the coast of modern-­day Ecuador. On November 13, 1704, an Indian man named Don Salvador Ango was brought in front of the Audiencia in Quito.101 Sebastian Manrique’s wife accused Ango of having tried to kill her husband with an evil spell, declaring that her husband had recovered from “intolerable pains all over his body” only with the help of the Almighty. Ango was sentenced, and his belongings seized. Other witnesses endorsed the wife’s accusation. Juan Rosa Pinto related that when Ango had been the mayor of Juan de Tulla de Otavalo, mulatto fishermen from Esmeraldas taught him how to employ unsavory methods against others. They showed him how to “take away the health of all of his enemies.” The key was to use three tobacco leaves and arrange them in a prescribed manner. When Ango was questioned about these leaves, he responded it was impossible to kill a human being using tobacco leaves, which could only induce fevers. But Michaela Manrique was persistent, and brought several other witnesses in front of the judges. In the end, the accusation of murder and of mulatto techniques was almost forgotten, as Ango’s own ethnic identity came to the fore. Was he perhaps a mestizo and no Indian? Yet it is clear that in Quito, at least, mulattos could be held to be teachers of evil, a suspicion that resurfaced at various times in different colonial settings. It would be too simplistic, however, to assume that the diffusion of Spanish and Afro-­Peruvian concepts of maleficio were confined to the coastal regions or were motivated by racial prejudice alone. As far as we can see from the surviving evidence, within a few decades, Afro-­

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Peruvian and Spanish beliefs and practices had reached the Andean highlands.102 Moreover, the use of puppets and toads, and the associated beliefs in their evil nature, gained momentum in intra-­Andean relationships as well. By the late seventeenth and early eighteenth centuries, it became obvious that a number of Amerindians had adopted the view that a waxen figure under the bed of one’s neighbor, a pierced toad on the roof of a house, a chicken stuffed with a substance that was interpreted to signify evil in the corner of a corral, and hairs in a person’s bag posed real threats to human lives. The history of these items followed an intricate path.

Toads in the Andes In the same pattern seen above in the evolution of (waxen) puppets, other carriers of sympathetic magic—teeth, hairs, and pierced toads— surfaced first in the interpretations of Spaniards, later in the practices of Spanish and mulatto hechizeras, and finally in the customs of indigenous inhabitants of the highlands.103 Given the surviving Andean and Inca evidence, we can most easily trace transfers and transformations from one culture to another by focusing on toads. Investigating their new prominence as carriers of evil requires a careful reading of Andean notions, Spanish concepts, and Afro-­Peruvian practices (the last with particular attention, as we lack in-­depth studies of Afro-­Peruvian beliefs).104 To this day, the pierced toad as a sign of evil sorcery has left its imprint on Andean rituals.105 It appeared in the central Andes, in Quito, and in Cuzco by the late seventeenth and early eighteenth centuries. The three incidents narrated below may help us gain a picture of how Andeans and Spaniards suddenly began to fear toads—which had always been a feature of the landscape—in the hands of religious specialists. In Huarochirí in the year 1700, an Indian, Don Marcelo Macuychauca, was called to appear in front of the ecclesiastical judge Diego de Torres y Zuñiga.106 The Indian obeyed, and in the magistrate’s study he emptied out a little bag that contained the following items: some grains of maize, various stones of different shapes, various shells, herbs, a whistle, and seeds. These objects, along with many other indications, were said to prove that someone from Huarochirí was a great hechi­ zero. The owner of this bag was suspected to be a man named Pedro Guaman Vilca, a native of Huarochirí. At the outset of the investigation, a Spanish-­speaking Indian, Juan Ylario Chumbivilca, had accused

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Pedro Guaman Vilca of acts of hechizería. It was his mention of a toad that initially drew the authorities’ attention. Once, when Chumbivilca felt sick, he had asked Guaman Vilca for advice and healing. Guaman Vilca immediately provided a diagnosis: somebody in the village (whom he did not name) wanted Chumbivilca harmed. Afterward, the healing procedure took its due course. Guaman Vilca asked Chumbivilca to provide him with a ladder. He then climbed on the roof of Chumbivilca’s hamlet and took down a little bag that contained a dead toad, whose neck was strangely “pierced” with glass splinters. Once this toad and a stone covered with gold and silver that Guaman Vilca had also found on the roof were removed, Guaman declared Chumbivilca to be healed. But the patient was quite curious and asked what the glass splinters in the toad’s neck meant. The healer told him that, among other things, someone wanted to make him drink a lot of alcohol, which increased his bad condition. In the end, Chumbivilca told the interrogator, his health did not improve and the six pesos the healer asked for was a terribly high price. In the course of this long investigation, several Indians testified to having approached Guaman Vilca for healing and help with matters of love. In front of the visitator, they willingly denounced him as an hechi­ zero who committed maleficios. One native Indian witness affirmed that he had once confessed to the local priest, Don Agustín, that he had unwrapped a bundle that was initially brought by a woman who killed his wife. As he remembered in astonishing detail, this bag contained many things, including a mutilated toad with tied legs, wrapped in fat and encrusted with coca leaves and hairs, and lizards with pierced eyes, also wrapped in fat and coca leaves and women’s hair. Back then, the priest had, according to the witness, ultimately called on Guaman Vilca, who had confessed that the bag was his. He also had admitted that the devil made him do these evil deeds. But luckily for him, the local priest at that time showed mercy, letting him go with a reminder that hell awaits for people like him. Guaman Vilca was instructed to burn the useless paraphernalia. Given the witnesses’ credible reports and the material evidence, such as the bag, the ecclesiastical judge checked Guaman Vilca’s house, where almost nothing was found. There were three old empty pots—in one a piece of fat, in another some hairs, and, besides other things, some maize, but no toad. Guaman Vilca was still in possession of a small bag, which Diego de Torres y Zuñiga inspected as well: he saw three white beans “of the highlands,” a seed of “quinaquinay,” a stone wrapped in old paper, and some loose and bundled

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hairs. The information recorded on the case ended with a surprising discovery by the prison’s administrator in Huarochirí: Guaman Vilca had escaped from prison, and he could be found neither in the village nor in the nearby surroundings. As this case shows, Pedro Guaman Vilca was first viewed as a healer who could counteract evil powers, but as the accusations mounted, the healer became branded as an hechizero, believed to have performed evil deeds and thus to be a master of evil forces. The meticulously registered paraphernalia displayed before the visitator included no toad, neither in Guaman Vilca’s house nor in his bag. The three mutilated toads and the mutilated lizards figured only in the witnesses’ reports. Around the same time, pierced toads in various regions of the Andes had gained a reputation for their dangerous powers. In 1730, in Quito, an Indian man named Lorenzo Besaquillo was accused of having used a toad to inflict harm on a royal official, Don Manuel Zambrano. The toad was pierced and put under the threshold of the alleged victim’s house. Asked how the toad could do injury, the accused said that a person who stepped on it would become crazy.107 Further queried as to whether he could heal such a case of maleficio, he answered that he could not, adding that a “person” wiser than him had inflicted the harm. His case was handed over to the Inquisition in Lima, which punished Besaquillo with two hundred strokes and imprisonment. Already in 1668 the Quito bishop Peña Montenegro’s Itinerario para párrocos admonished the priests to especially pay attention to the instruments of hechizeros, and especially to living and dead toads.108 By the end of the seventeenth century, toads (pierced or not) had become identified with evil sorcery. Two other incidents from the late colonial period provide further proof for the growing tendency to ascribe a suspect nature to them. Eighteenth-­century Cuzco was teeming with clerics preoccupied with toads and perhaps even with the animals themselves.109 In an eighteenth-­century painting in the Jesuit church of Andahuaylillas, several toads along with snakes and insects fall from a piece of linen (see figure 7.1).110 A contrite-­looking Saint Peter kneels in front of the populated cloth, representing the penitence of all those who operated with toads. The objects on the cloth might accurately depict the mesa of a typical eighteenth-­century Cuzqueñan religious specialist. Around April 29, 1748, the Dominican friar, priest, and part-­ time Cuzco University professor Luis Hurtado de Mendoza, together with Don Thomas Eusevio de la Peña, Ygnacio Suarez Grande, Don Antonio

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Figure 7.1. Saint Peter, by an anonymous painter, in the Jesuit church of

Andahuaylillas (eighteenth century). Saint Peter kneels in front of a cloth from which fall several toads, along with snakes and insects. Andahuaylillas, Peru.

Rimachi Maita, Joseph Anco, and Fernando Guayllas, visited a farm in Santo Tomás de Rondocán, about thirty miles southeast of Cuzco.111 The village belonged to Hurtado de Mendoza’s parish. Rumors of an Indian woman who was an hechizera, a bruja, living in Santo Tomás de Rondocán, had come to their ears. A sick woman named Maria Petrona had suffered from partial paralysis in her legs and arms. She died even though the priest tried to cure her with “water of sage,” and even though she recited the Credo three times daily. After her death, the six men set out to look for the bruja who had inflicted this illness on Maria Petrona. When they arrived at the dwelling of the supposed bruja, Cathalina Choque, they found only two black stones and two little figures. The visitators began to ask witnesses who knew Choque about her commerce with toads. Her son reported that he had seen his mother with two old ladies, Doña Ursula Nieto and Doña Isabel, approaching a cave where they were keeping a crock that contained toads and a number of herbs. He added that three toads were also hiding under the grinding stone. In contrast, Choque’s daughter and husband denied the presence of any toads. But neighbors whom the visitators approached vouched for the rumors about Choque being a bruja or hechi­

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zera. As the recorder noted, there were indeed an unusual number of sick Indians in the little village of Santo Tomás de Rondocán. One man, for example, declared that his arm had been hurting for eight years, and when he finally went to some unnamed Indian, he was told that he was bewitched. Still other residents had seen a number of toads in Choque’s kitchen. After collecting this information, Mendoza transferred the case to the next higher authority, the “Sr. Provisor y Vicario Gralpara.” At that point, we lose track of Choque’s fate. In this mid-­ eighteenth-­century case, a Dominican priest in Cuzco was looking for a bruja who, according to other Indians, had inflicted harm on the community. Among the suspicious elements they pointed to were toads, but the visitator had found none. In another case, thirty years later, another bruja was accused in the parish of Pisac, close to Cuzco.112 A man named Joseph Guanaca, a supervisor on an hacienda, was the chief complainant. On September 25, 1774, he told the corregidor Pablo Figueroa y Portocarrero his impressions of what was going on in the hacienda of Chaguaitini, denouncing one Francisca Guaman. This woman was suspected of having harmed several Indians from the hacienda. The first charge leveled by Guanaca was connected to events of 1771, when some Indians were branding the hacienda’s cows and the accused offered chicha to the workers. Before handing it over, Guaman put something—nobody knew what—in the liquid. Only one Indian woman was willing to drink it, and she became terribly sick. This Indian woman later suspected that ground molars of some infidels had been thrown into the chicha and had sickened her. Guanaca went on to complain that in the five years that followed, twenty of his own cows had died, and some indigenous workers suspected that Francisca Guaman had put some hechizerías in his stable. Moreover, Guanaca alleged that in 1773, an Indian man named Melchor Albarade, from the little town of Puquimaio, visited him and asked if somebody wanted him ill—referring indirectly to the dead cows. Indeed, Albarade said he knew that someone was trying to injure Guanaca, and he knew who it was: Francisca Guaman, the sister of his wife, Antonia Guaman. One night, Antonia had heard fearsome noises in her and Francisca’s house and later had seen Francisca and a female friend flying out of it. Before they left, she had heard both women asking a little doll in the form of a toad whether it was hungry. Since the toad answered yes, they fed it, and then both women rubbed their bodies with some sort of unguent. Albarade told this story to Guanaca

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to prove that Francisca was responsible for the unnatural death of his cattle. Guanaca’s report contained further accusations. After he had decided to denounce Francisca Guaman in front of the town’s mayor, and she had somehow learned of his intention, she entered his house and begged him vigorously not to say anything to the “jurists.” But Guanaca, as he proudly said, had remained unmoved. Suddenly Francisca had grabbed his hair and scolded him, bursting with rage; he felt some prickling in his limbs and let her go. The supervisor then started to interview other Indians of the hacienda, who told him that they were suffering from various sicknesses whose causes they could not identify. This long denunciation ended with the incarceration of Francisca Guaman and her husband in Calca and the confiscation of her sixty sheep, six cows, and four pigs. When Don Gregorio Ibaseta, the ecclesiastical judge, called on the suspects to confess, they denied everything. They suggested that Guanaca was telling these lies because he wanted to blame Francisca for the loss of his cows, which had died from a natural cause. The accused Indian woman also suspected that another Indian man was involved, whose motive for falsely incriminating her was to conceal his own theft of a cow. When Guaman was asked if she possessed a little doll in the form of a toad, she answered that she did not, and also vehemently denied that she had been flying around the area. Another Indian woman, who was also accused of brujería and hechizería in the same case, was certain that Guanaca had bribed Albarade in order to present an extra witness. At this point, our record of the case ends. The toad as an instrument of witches and as the carrier of an evil spell, an image that recurs in these glimpses into eighteenth-­century Andean and Catholic mind-­sets, had also been a frequent theme in popular early modern European legends.113 Toads often figured in accounts of magical healing and miraculous natural phenomena by authors from Pliny onward.114 In particular, the association of toads with female witches was standard in early modern European literature. Beginning with their earliest writings, European authors in Peru linked toads in the Andes with evil. In his “Errores,” Polo de Ondegardo wrote of hechizeros: There are some hechizeros skilled in preparing portions of herbs and roots with which they kill the one whom they give it. Some herbs and

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roots kill some people more rapidly others more slowly—depending on the concoction and the mixture. And some of those who perform similar sorceries are mostly women who for those mixtures use molars, teeth, figures of sheep, hairs, fingernails, living or dead toads, different shells, differently shaped as well as colored heads of animals, little dried animals, many different herbs and roots, and they owned little pots with herbs, ointments, and big spiders. All these pots were sealed with mud.115

He added that a sick person usually would approach the hechizero to request that the harm inflicted on him or her be undone, but the hechi­ zero ended up killing the sick person instead. Moreover, Guaman Poma de Ayala referred to the corregidor of Lucanas, Martín de Mendoza, who had detected various toads and snakes in the house of Diego Suyca in Santiago de Chipao. Hechizeras like Diego Suyca’s sister used a toad and some venom from a serpent in order to talk to the devil and in order to poison a person. Hechizeras like her would manipulate toads, raising them (and serpents) in their own houses so that they could hide them underneath the dwellings of some hated enemies.116 And it was sermon number 13 of the Third Catechism issued by the Third Council of Lima that admonished the confessing person: “Do you know that for each sin you admit you will vomit ugly demons and toads? And in case you conceal them, they will all catch up with you?”117 In Catholic sermons, toads thus became synonymous with sins. But the toad was more than a monstrous figment of the Spanish imagination. The Spanish would-­be magus in Peru, Diego de la Rosa, who owned a ring that helped him escape disputes and had a piece of paper that enabled him to disappear, admitted to having hidden a skull under the soil; he said that after thirty days, the devil appeared in the skull in the shape of a toad and called on him. And between 1655 and 1656, Anna Bellezo, known as a Spanish hechizera, was held in high esteem by Andeans, Afro-­Peruvians, and Spaniards. The Lima Inquisition tribunal convicted her for owning a pot in which the visitators found worms and waxen toads wrapped in paper. Though these stories might suggest that European conventions were being projected on the Andean world, toads were hardly foreign to Andean cultures or geography. Their meanings before the late seventeenth century were different, however. In his Historia del nuevo mundo, the Jesuit Bernabé Cobo (1582– 1675) referred to a toad that was associated with water. As soon as it

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rained, it would start to croak. According to Cobo, this common toad— in Quechua, the hampatu—was at home in the lowlands of Tucumán, where local people venerated it.118 More thoroughly than anyone before or after him, Cobo studied Andean nature through the eyes both of a Spaniard and the Amerindians. He traveled throughout the viceroyalty for decades, searching for natural specimens, and ended his investigation by spending twelve years in Mexico.119 In one respect, the archaeological remains agree with Cobo’s findings: they show that several Andean civilizations associated different kinds of toads with water and fertility. Toads molded in ceramics or crafted in stone abounded in the Moche, Tiwanaku, Pukara, and Inca civilizations. In Moche ceramics, toads are depicted either with maize or with coca. From the Moche culture, little turquoise stones in the shape of toads have survived.120 When Spaniards were looting the oracle of Pachacamac, they took golden figures of toads and melted them into bullion to ship to Spain.121 But it was not precolonial coastal cultures alone that held toads in great esteem. Cultures along Lake Titicaca treasured the animal as well. Among the remains of the Pukara civilization is the so-­called Thunderbolt stele, which depicts lightning and the chiseled representation of a toad (see figure 7.2). As Polo de Ondegardo and others noted, the Incas and the Chachapoyans considered lightning the harbinger of water, and therefore offered it mullus as offerings. The toad is thus again associated with the life-­giving element. The nearby Tiwanaku treasured some small toads made out of black stones, though scholars have not explained why. Significantly, these toads carry their own puquio (water fountain) on their backs. To this day, Indians in the southern Andes search the celestial Milky Way, which represents the universal flow of water, for a black toad next to the black llama. The stone of Sayhuite near Abancay, which was carved by Inca stonemasons, shows a toad sitting in a water basin.122 And as we will see in a moment, in a late sixteenth-­century Huarochirí myth, a toad came to be stored underneath grinding stones—another hint at its association with fertility. Yet Inca culture—and perhaps other Andean cultures as well—­ bestowed more than one meaning on toads. Cristóbal de Molina and Martín de Murúa gave meaningful hints at the symbolic cosmos of toads in Inca times and perhaps in Andean cosmology. Murúa referred to the Haulla Viça festivities in Cuzco during which the Incas followed a distinctive rite before engaging in war.123 The main priest of Cuzco, the Vallaviça, celebrated a solemn sacrifice in which he used the flesh of the black llama’s heart valve to prophesy the war’s outcome.124 Be-

Figure 7.2. Thunderbolt stele, from the Pukara civilization (400 B.C.E.–

200 C.E.). A toad is chiselled into it. Museo Regional Arqueológico de Tiwanaku, Bolivia.

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sides inspecting the llama’s flesh, the priest gave feathers and, more important, small round and angular stones to the flames. These stones bore engraved depictions of toads as well as of serpents, pumas, and jaguars. While the priest was throwing these stones into the fire (so that they might be taken, literally, to the gods), he cried, “Usachum,” which Murúa translated “take away the forces of the huacas of our enemies.”125 In this Inca ritual, the toad together with the other animals was associated with the idea of “taking away forces,” in this instance by invoking one’s own huaca to annihilate the powers of the enemy huaca. The symbolic use of the toad in this context can be understood in two different ways. On the one hand, read from the enemy’s perspective, the toad and other animals are thought to inflict harm. Read from the perspective of the Incas, the toad and the other animals offered protection. An Inca cape adorned with hundreds of golden toads probably also evoked a protective aura. The use of the toad’s image thus reveals a general aspect of how symbols were understood in the Andean world. Because a symbol’s meaning always depended on the viewpoint of the one who was “reading” and using that symbol, it could be either positive or negative. The toad was strongly associated with the threat of poison—indeed, poisonous toads are common throughout the Andes, though Cobo claimed that there were fewer poisonous species there than in Europe.126 But Molina showed that they could be symbolically linked to ridicule as well as harm. In recounting the Inca ceremonies of Moyucati, which were held in Cuzco in honor of Viracocha, he reported that the slowest Indians had to carry a toad made out of salt on their return from Ollantaytambo to Cuzco.127 Perhaps the toad was associated with slowness or lameness because its poison can paralyze. Pachacuti, in describing an Inca initiation rite, and Guaman Poma, in referring to the inhabitants of the Inca zankay, point to a similar association.128 Christians might find the coexistence of different meanings in one and the same symbolic carrier paradoxical. While it is possible that the toads in the archaeological remains and in the historical-­mythical accounts are two distinct species, no such “explanation” is required. As we know from other evidence, many Andean cultures highly esteemed the principle of duality that unites opposing, and thus complementary, entities (even of life, or water, and death). Only when read from the perspective of European logic were the meanings of the toad unacceptably contradictory. A third association for the toad in Inca, southwestern Andean, and even Catholic conceptions in the southern Andes is as representative of

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a hallucinogenic experience. In his usual careful fashion, Molina wrote of the Inca belief in a “hell” in which bad souls suffered from hunger and thirst as their food consisted of coal, snakes, and toads.129 We might be inclined to argue that Molina’s description reveals more about Christian assumptions than about Inca beliefs (modern Andean myths do contain a concept of the “underworld”). But two pieces of colonial evidence hint that animals, particularly toads, may well be used to refer indirectly to experiences of the netherworld, induced by ingesting a hallucinogen. Cobo once reported that the healer, who claimed to have sucked toads, snakes, and stones from the body of a sick person, had been in a state of ecstasy. As ethnological evidence suggests, healers in the north visualize animals in their ecstatic experiences. Those who have drunk ayahuasca sometimes see pumas before their inner eye.130 The image of hell populated with animals thus may have been not a Christian image but a symbol of a hallucinogenic experience in which the carrier of the poison as well as its effects are depicted. The best colonial testimony for the association of toads with a hallucinogen in certain Andean cultures is contained in the Huarochirí Manuscript. It gives us a riddling account of the son of Pariacaca (the main hero of the whole mythic complex).131 Pariacaca’s son Huatya Curi is shown to be wiser than the wisest men, wiser than the shamans, and of course wiser than a would-­be wise, rich, and powerful man named Tamta Ñamca. When Tamta Ñamca became ill and indigenous shamans could not find the cause of his malaise,132 only a fox and then the godlike Huatya Curi knew it: Tamta Ñamca’s wife’s adultery was responsible for his illness. Two snakes and a two-­headed toad “eating up” Tamta Ñamca were the visible signs of the crime. In the process of healing, Huatya Curi killed the two snakes that were on the roof of his house and tried to kill the two-­headed toad underneath the grinding stone, which slipped through his fingers and fled into a nearby spring (pond). There, according to the legend—which Ávila believed was true—it existed “to this day.” Avila scribbled in the margins: “ask the name of this spring, and where it is,” because “when people come to that spring, it either makes them disappear, or else drives them crazy.” It is significant that this two-­headed toad under the grinding stone was associated first with sickness and second with “craziness.”133 Inca and colonial Andean cultures held two-­headed animals—such as the double-­headed snake, or Amaru—and pairs generally (twins, matched black and white stones, and so on) in highest esteem.134 The two-­headed toad, like all rarities in nature, was thought to be bestowed with un-

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Figure 7.3. Mural by an anonymous painter in the cloister cell of Fray Francisco de Salamanca (ca. eighteenth century). Monastery of La Merced, Cuzco, Peru.

usual powers, but its ability to provoke “craziness” is more important for the toad’s colonial trajectory. The myth apparently refers to some ecstatic experience or even to the use of the toads’ skin as a hallucinogen, as also detailed in shamanistic legends of Asia and early modern Europe.135 In his influential work Historia de gentibus septentrionalis (1555), the European scholar Olaus Magnus indirectly referred to this practice.136 Was it perhaps also common among residents of Huarochirí and the highlands in general? The association of toads and hallucinogenic effects is interestingly taken up in an eighteenth-­century painting in Cuzco: in the cloister cell of Fray Francisco de Salamanca in the monastery of La Merced, a depiction of hell includes a toad hanging from the tongue of a person who appears crazed (see figure 7.3).137 It can be identified as Bufo marinus, the cane toad, whose secretions are (and perhaps were then) used as a hallucinogen in the Caribbean.138 This iconography very likely captures the conflation of three different elements: an Andean concept of the netherworld (related to ecstasy), a contemporary practice of licking toads’ skins, and a Christian apocalyptic belief. Peruvian artists often followed standard early modern European iconography, which drew on the biblical book of Revelation; there, the forms taken by the devil included that of a frog.139 Diego Quispe

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Figure 7. 4. Juicio Final (1802), by Tadeo Escalante, Church of Huaro, Cuzco, Peru.

Tito’s Last Judgment (1675) and Tadeo Escalante’s depiction of hell in the church of Huaro (which he finished in 1802; see figure 7.4), both originating in Cuzco, prominently feature toads pulling people down into hell.140 As noted above, the eighteenth-­century clergy of Cuzco developed a true paranoia concerning toads as an attribute of accused witches. But in those cases, the animal’s presence might have had a benign explanation. Perhaps Cathalina Choque hid her toads underneath the grinding stones because she wanted them to supply a hallucinogen or valued them as symbols of fertility. And the “flight” undertaken by Francisca Guaman after feeding a toad might have simply been a spiritual one, induced by hallucinogenic substances.

Retaining an Andean concept of harm and cure Through cultural exchanges involving the figure of the toad and the puppet, Spanish beliefs as well as Spanish and Afro-­Peruvian instruments and practices were transferred to Andean rituals. They added new meanings to existing Andean symbols and allowed animosities to be expressed in new ways. The novel suspicion of maleficio tied to these carriers came to be widespread. And yet many Andeans continued to see evil expressed by other means. The traditional Andean concept of

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harm caused by an outside force survived, so people continued to view poisons, neglect of huacas, snakes, worms, threads spun to the left, and noxious herbs tied to conopas as sources of evil.141 Consider the following three testimonies. First, the belief that evil harm was transmitted via drink or food domi‑ nated several testimonies in seventeenth-­century visitation records. In 1677, in Pararín, the Spanish official Alvarado y Tovar accused Diego Chauca, called the sabio (wise man), of having misled new Christians to perform hechizerías.142 The witnesses knew him to be a skilled healer and an expert in poison, relying mainly on herbs, liquor, and tobacco. At one time he had been entirely trusted by those Indians who later came to accuse him of fraud. They had chosen to consult him rather than a Spanish doctor in nearby Huaraz. One native reported that Diego Chauca had given him a mate de chicha; after he gulped it, his whole body was paralyzed. He immediately sought out another famous healer and herbalist, Pueblo de Carguas, who determined that he had been given a bocado.143 Second, and more important, the concept of harm often remained tied to huacas. In 1642, Isabel Huanay was accused of having employed evil spells to heal a person. She was also suspected of involvement in Juan Macacana’s death in 1640. One native witness, Catalina Pomacolqui, recalled that Isabel had urged the people of the village to sacrifice a “sheep” (probably a llama) for an unknown reason. Her helpers brought the animal, together with coca and chicha. While sacrificing the sheep, Huanay implored the congregation to invoke the name “Caca,” declaring that otherwise one person would die. The village disobeyed Isabel, whose authority obviously was not absolute, and nobody called on Caca. One day later, the already sick Juan Macacana died. The huaca’s name, Caca, was hidden in Macacana’s surname. Harm thus appeared to result from a huaca’s displeasure with being disobeyed. Third, in Yaután, in 1646, the licentiate Juan Gutíerrez de Aguilar investigated the curaca Francisco Malqui Guaman and his wife, Elvira Yauca. The couple had the reputation of being hechizeros because, as Gutíerrez found out, they had put hechizos in some liquids used to damage the fields of their neighbors. They had also buried some corncobs previously infected with “noxious herbs.” This is an important detail, because it reflects a specifically Andean notion of doing harm. Several witnesses confirmed that the indigenous couple had instructed others about dangerous plants. According to Alonso Mato, Elvira had forced him, despite his hesitation, to drink an unknown substance and

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he almost died. He was convinced that he was saved only because he took contrahierba. Another witness underscored the couple’s capacity for evil sorcery, which had made him lose his cotton crop. The Spaniard Andrés Dias Calleron had an explanation for their practice of maleficio: they disliked Spaniards.144 Like the Quechua hampicoc, or Ymaymana Viracocha, who had command over both lethal and beneficial plants, after 1600 some religious specialists continued to be associated with harm resulting from their ties to a huaca and use of noxious herbs connected with typical Andean objects (for example, maize). These objects with their long-­ standing symbolic meaning were believed to have generative powers: thus the infected corncob produced “contamination.” Poisons are likewise natural substances, though potentially harmful. In 1618, the Jesuits, for example, made an Indian woman in Huaylas confess that she had induced harm with herbs.145 Thus, the traditional concept of evil remained intact, structured by the logic of the Andean idea of nature, by the perceived bond between human beings and huacas, and by the powers of a given symbol. In the Andean world, the concept of the preternatural was not necessary to explain how harm had been caused by an outside force. Consistent with the native notion of evil as tied to nature, huacas, or both, was the operation of antidotes.146 In colonial rituals, two of the most widely used remedies for maleficio were two herbs: villca and contrahierba (another way to counter an evil spell was to wash the victim in a river). In Inca and colonial Andean times, these plants were huacas that had gained their powers from even more potent huacas. Healing was effected not by nature alone, but by the holy qualities of specific plants and shrubs. Belief in both these herbal huacas went back to the Incas, and contrahierba became an important global commodity. Indeed, it quickly gained renown among Creoles and Europeans on both sides of the Atlantic and was widely requested because of its ability to counteract animal venom, particularly that of snakes. Some authors suggested that contrahierba was capable of dissipating a melancholy humor. No wonder then that contrahierba made its way into Salombrini’s famous Jesuit pharmacy, a center for distributing materia médica to various boticas in the viceroyalty and all of South America.147 The Augustinian scholar Antonio de la Calancha—who, much like Cobo, was led by pure curiosity to investigate almost everything that fell into his hands—observed that Indians considered con­

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trahierba to be “effective against incantations.”148 This Spanish and Creole interpretation was endorsed by Andeans as well. In Trujillo in 1771, Maria Isidora Asnarán was put behind bars as an hechizera for having implemented maleficios that other healers from Ferreñafe were undoing by using herbs. But Asnarán claimed that it was she who was a healer of maleficios, having used “avilla, ceshew, palito, gualcacolpa and contrahierba de los Incas” to rid a patient of an evil spell. Three years later, an administrator of a hacienda near Trujillo accused yet another hechizera, Petrona Alegría, of harming one of his slaves with maleficios while she had tried to heal him with hairs, maize, the fat of a pig, and the contrahierba of the Incas. Apparently, in the central Andes and in the north, contrahierba (de los Incas) had gained the reputation of being a powerful antidote to any sort of maleficios—whether naturally induced or resulting from sympathetic magic—and their consequences.149 Today, the herb is known among pharmacists for its purgative and sweat-­inducing properties. Villca (or villca tauri—probably Anadenanthera colubrina) was also used by colonial Andean healers against poison and, later, against “evil spells.” In pre-­Inca and Inca times, villca had been a more important herb than contrahierba; it was used as a hallucinogen, and Incas believed it made soldiers fierce and courageous.150 In the 1560s, and thus a hundred years earlier than most of our evidence, Polo de Ondegardo had heard that diviners reliant on villca were famous among the Chachapoyans, in Huanuco, in Cuzco, and in Huarochirí. Indeed, some four thousand years ago, the inhabitants of San Pedro de Atacama (in modern-­day northern Chile/Bolivia) had already begun wrapping villca in small pieces of cloth. The Tiwanaku and the Moche in the north had inhaled it from snuff trays.151 Place-­names like Villcabamba and Villcanota, as well as surnames like Villcaguaman, testify to the high esteem that this shrub enjoyed among Andeans under Inca rule. Blas Valera and Luis Jerónimo de Oré claimed that villca was an “idol of the Indians,” without knowing what that really meant. Valera had obviously heard of the Varivillca, the “idol” of the Incas’ main enemies, the Huancas, to which Titu Cusi Yupanqui had also referred. Besides being a huaca, villca in Inca times was already being viewed as an antidote against an evil spell. As Molina noted, the Incas in their August celebrations for health and well-­being praised the huilcas (villcas) and Viracocha: “Oh Wiracocha, the one and only in the world. . . . Don’t abandon us.”152 The wish for mere survival was thus closely linked with

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the huilcas and Viracocha.153 Today, the bark of the villca plant is used to treat liver ailments (and thus, in a manner of speaking, provides an antidote to poisons). Contrahierba and villca are mentioned more often in visitation records than any other plants. In 1660, in Huarochirí, for example, a woman named Maria Pimaticlla felt very sick. To get a little relief, she sat underneath a tree in the shade along the road that went from the eastern Andes to the coast. Three traveling men from Cuzco stopped next to her and asked her how she was. Maria told them that she was ill, and the travelers gave her a little bag containing “contrahierba, quina quina, and villca tauri.” After Maria took the medicine, she reportedly recovered and gained the reputation of being herself a healer.154 A generation later in Junín, a visitator interrogated a man named Pedro Guaman. He was also a traveling healer whose bag contained coca and villca tauri. Though some Indians suspected that these plants served some evil ends, he countered that he used “villca tauri, coca, and contra yerba” against the mal de corazón (cardiac pain). The reliance on these two plants stood in stark contrast to Peruvian Catholic approaches to remedying a case of maleficio. At some unknown point during the seventeenth century, an anonymous reader of Francisco Villalpando Torreblanco’s Daemonologia sive de magia naturali daemoniaca licita et illicita (1623) underlined in his copy the statement that it is unlawful to counteract maleficio with another act of maleficio. Whoever this reader was, he was certainly interested in the vicissitudes of the European discourse on magic, which included discussion of the remedies for maleficio.155 The most pious Catholic authors suggested returning to the principles of scholastic philosophy and the blessings of Christ. Andeans, however, continued to think differently.156 As natural antidotes to venom, villca and contrahierba drew on Inca heritage, but they became Andeans’ most common recourse to heal maleficios as induced by natural objects.157 The Incas and Inca heritage gained the reputation for being effective in healing, influencing the methods of Afro-­Peruvian and Spanish ritual specialists. But unlike their indigenous colleagues, the Spanish—and particularly black and pardo ritual specialists—served as specialists in love.158 Andean love magic, in contrast, was more the exception than the rule.

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Resistance to falling in love the Spanish and Afro-­Peruvian way By now the reader might be wondering what other practices or beliefs made their way from Europe, Africa, and the Caribbean into indigenous rituals during colonial times. Religious specialists in the central Andes, and particularly in the north, did employ smoking tobacco or tobacco leaves (instead of sayri, powdered tobacco) and came to use aguardiente (schnapps) as healing instruments.159 The latter replaced chicha, and the inhaling and blowing out of tobacco smoke was either autochthonous or in some instances replaced sayri and the blowing of different colors toward a huaca.160 The objects may have changed, but their function in the rituals did not alter. In the southern Andes during colonial times, the interethnic transfers in most instances stopped here.161 The rituals of northern Peruvian healers tell a different story. Looking back from modern-­day examples, the mesas of shamans in the north came to contain many more elements that incorporate objects and beliefs once specific to the Dahomey in western Africa.162 Transfers in the other direction, from Andeans to the Spaniards and Afro-­Peruvians, were less selective.163 Afro-­Peruvian hechizeros drew on coca for love magic and on the Incas and huacas, but they rarely adopted indigenous notions of evil.164 Rituals intended to foster love were the source of some of the greatest disagreement in the Peruvian discourse on indigenous rituals since the time of the chroniclers. In his chapter on hechizeros, Guaman Poma de Ayala mentioned one group called “Vacanqui camayos; they say about the vacanquis that they are birds, called Tunqui from the Andes, others say they are spines[,] . . . water, stones, leaves of trees, colors, or ychima [a color]; haughty servants, in the house of Spanish women . . . , carry these vacanquis. These [servants] are whores, mesoneras, and tam­ beras. It is said that some Spanish women obtain [these vacanquis] to take possession of their husband’s haciendas; these women [huacan­ ceras] make men kill themselves and [make men] spend all they have on them and thus impoverish [these men].”165 Vacanquis or huacan­ quis, according to Guaman Poma, apparently could be of very different nature and somehow operated in a context of Spaniards, love, and deception. In González Holguín’s dictionary, huacanqui were “some herbs that served as spells for love,” and the Huacanquaoc was the one “who provokes that the one who carries the spell, induces love.”166 In 1581, Cristóbal de Albornoz, Guaman Poma’s esteemed teacher, described a

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ritual among the hechizeros of the Collasuyu. On a certain occasion, four hechizeros gathered in a canyon, carrying long leaves in the form of sticks and—allegedly—on top a pharmacist’s spatula. The hechizeros adorned their heads with feathers and held the herb in their hands; they started to cry and invoked their huacas. Then the hechizeros slapped the herbs on the quebrada (perhaps a crevice), and mosquitoes emerged. The hechizeros called these mosquitoes huacanquis and carried them to the ruling Inca and the Inca nobility to make their wives love them. Apparently, Albornoz had found it difficult to understand this ritual.167 José de Arriaga reported a similar ritual in which indigenous men hit a stone in order to know whether the women they loved returned their feelings. He had also heard of the huacanqui, consisting of the hair of the beloved mixed with either colored flies, feathers, or birds, a potion also described later by Villagómez. According to Arriaga, the huacanqui was made out of hair, colored birds, feathers, or painted flies, and was like the Roman philtrum (potion), but he too was unsure of how exactly it was employed. Usually, the conscientious Jesuit was more hesitant in making an obvious reference to the European tradition.168 None of the chroniclers’ reports was certain about the nature of hua­ canquis, nor about how hechizeros employed them, perhaps owing to regional variation. Yet the connection between love and the huacanqui was already captured in a myth that was told under Inca rule, which both Molina and Sarmiento de Gamboa included in their histories. The story took place after the great flood, when only one Andean couple survived. They were in dire need of food, which was brought to them by a woman who had transformed into a bird. Since those times, Andeans had worshipped the feathers of this huacanqui. Molina also reported that both a people south of Quito and the Cañares south of Cuzco were nicknamed huacanqui.169 During the colonial period, indigenous rituals to promote love continued to employ feathers and hairs. Maria of Huamantanga, for example, was a healer and a love specialist. One day she was approached by a man named Marcelo Guaman, who confessed that he had fallen in love with a native widow. Maria tied some of his and the widow’s hairs around a feather of the bird parionra (perhaps Xenodacnis parina) and gave it to Marcelo with the words “beautiful and pretty feather, here I bestow you with the hairs of this lover, allow this woman to love him.” Her words proved effective, and Guaman and the widow married one year later.170 Despite the enigmatic nature of huacanquis, and despite their apparently many local traditions, one chronicler was again quite con-

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vinced that his single interpretation was the truth. Even though Murúa usually borrowed his information on rituals from Polo de Ondegardo, he alone declared in the Historia general del Perú: “There were, and there are, other Indians who carry with them given hechizos, which they call huacanqui to attract women and make them love men. These huacanquis were made of birds’ feathers, arranged according to the invention of each province. The Indians used to put other hechizos into the clothes or bed of the person whom they wanted to affect.”171 In Murúa’s Galvin Manuscript, Guaman Poma depicted a woman hechi­ zera holding a plate with ingredients of different colors in front of a fire. A man was seated directly behind her, a hint at love magic, but otherwise an unusual feature, as in the other depictions hechizeras are solitary. The image does not, as in other instances of the manuscript, accord with the description in the text.172 The anonymous Quito manuscript, which Fernando de Montesinos reproduced in his Memorias his­ toriales (1642), also referred to a similar, but not identical, Andean practice of putting huacanquis between the clothes of a beloved person.173 Neither Polo de Ondegardo, Arriaga, Guaman Poma, Villagómez, nor Pérez Bocanegra described the hechizero putting the huacanqui into a bed or into the clothes of another person.174 Murúa’s heavy emphasis on love magic was not shared by other chroniclers. In fact, from 1590 to 1615, while rewriting the Galvin Manuscript to produce the Historia general del Perú, Murúa diligently reworked the sections on love magic. The contents were shortened considerably.175 But even in this shortened version, the Mercedarian Fray Alonso Remón, the editor of Murúa’s manuscript, found these shortened passages on love magic in the Historia general still too explicit, censoring any information that provided details on how Andeans performed love magic.176 But as he had done in the case of fat, Murúa interpreted an Andean practice in light of another (still) unknown source and perhaps even in light of witchcraft practices that developed in the contact zone between Andeans and Afro-­Peruvians.177 For love magic was the area of expertise particularly for Spanish and Afro-­Peruvian ritual specialists.178 By the mid-­ seventeenth century, Afro-­Peruvians had stepped into the foreground everywhere as experts in the field. They usually used herbs, feathers, coca leaves, or the lodestone to unite desperate men and women.179 The Inquisition tribunals of Mexico and Cartagena convicted several black women of having performed love magic by using herbal and other potions.180 Almost everything in Afro-­Peruvian practices referred either to love, to health, or to divination. In 1655, Antonia de Abarca, a mu-

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latto woman from Lima, was reported to have used some powders for love magic. In 1672, Maria Jurado Lamba, a free slave, swore oaths on coca “to attract the will of men.”181 In 1696, the mestizo Maria de Castro Barreto y Navarrete, in conjunction with a black woman, cooked coca with spirits to “cook the hearts of men.”182 Often lodestones accompanied Afro-­Peruvian rituals dealing with affairs. In 1696, Maria de Castro Barreto y Navarrete asked for coca, money, and a magnet for her incantations. In 1778, Paula Molina, a Zamba, told a client to buy a lodestone and cover it with her husband’s semen to regain fidelity. Powders and coca shaped the rituals of black specialists who provided health and love. Lodestones were also used often by Spanish hechizeras in the context of love magic.183 But none of these practices had much impact on Andean religious specialists.184 Love magic was the exception, however. The transfer of Spanish concepts of evil and Spanish and Afro-­Peruvian practices tied to puppets, waxen objects, or pierced proxies severely affected social cohesion among Andean commoners in the central Andes, who began to experience maleficio in new forms.185 Whereas the toad had formerly been a symbol of water and representative of a hallucinogen or a hallucinogenic experience, the pierced toad was now considered the agent of evil. These beliefs and the performances accompanying them ultimately changed the role of Andean religious specialists in their society, as they took on the task of remedying these occurrences of maleficio. Some of them began to craft pierced toads and waxen puppets, perhaps in the belief that doing so would address animosities. Sympathetic magic thus entered the world of Andean rituals. But this development bypassed other seventeenth-­ century highland religious specialists, who continued to believe in what we might call an Andean notion of harm, induced by poison or a huaca and remedied by Inca huacas and plants. By the time suspicions of maleficio began to spread through the countryside and became a growing concern of authorities on the peripheries of colonial Peru, the Jesuits had already begun to use the knowledge of the disempowered religious specialists in order to style themselves as experts on nature and healing. They rose to become religious specialists in their own peculiar fashion.

Chapter Eight

Weeping Statues: The End of Jesuit Demonology and the Survival of an Andean Culture

There is no single explanation of why, by the mid-­eighteenth century, the persecution of hechizeros had finally turned into a phenomenon of the periphery. As is usual in any historical development, several factors were involved. Historians have cited the ongoing assimilation of Andean commoners in the archdiocese of Lima,1 with the exception, perhaps, of the many strong-­minded religious specialists in the backcountry that this book has focused on. Another reason lies in the withdrawal of the Jesuits from Lima’s center of power, and the diminished Spanish and Creole interest in persecution during the post-­ Villagómez era.2 Even the clergy of Lima had slowly lost interest in hechizería.3 Nevertheless, though the will to transform previous proclamations against hechizeros into political action may have diminished during the first two decades of the eighteenth century, dying out entirely by midcentury, in the provinces change proceeded in the opposite direction.

From the metropolis to the periphery In eighteenth-­century Quito, Trujillo, Cuzco, Arequipa, and Cajamarca, the persecution of hechizeros continued with greater vigor than in the metropolis. Whereas the threat of piracy occupied the minds of Lima’s politicians, Quito faced no external threats. Instead, the perception of danger from within provoked Quito’s Audiencia to deal harshly with maleficio in 1704, 1705, 1730, and 1749, when, in some instances, ethnic conflict underlay persecutions. Persecutions also increased in response to challenges to local political power.4 Some thousand miles south of Quito, in Andagua, near Arequipa, in 1751, a local governor initiated an

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extensive series of examinations of indigenous people who were known for their brujos (witches). The Creole elite had been uneasy with native Andaguans ever since these wool traders allegedly had lynched a priest and showed disobedience to royal justices.5 Other hot spots were Cajamarca and Cuzco. In Pisac in 1776, the corregidor collected testimonies in a case against an hechizera in a case of maleficio.6 In other places, local priests, under the tutelage of their bishops, turned into detectives of hechizeros and, as in Cuzco, witches: in 1748, in Santo Tomás de Rondocán, south of Cuzco; in Nuestra Señora de la Asunción, near Cajamarca, in 1782; and in Guzmango, in the backcountry of Cajamarca, in 1795, where a local priest accused an “indio” for having asked other natives to bring water from the ocean in two pumpkin receptacles so that this might bring rain to their village.7 In 1776, a local governor in San Pablo, in Cajamarca, registered superstitious healing practices of Indians who healed, for example, with powders, hairs, herbs, tobacco, pieces of birds, and heads of snakes. Similar charges were levied against an indigenous curandero by a local priest in Asunción, near Cajamarca, in 1782. Local priests in Cajamarca accused several indigenous inhabitants of shortcomings in their Christian orthodoxy as well as of uncivilized behavior.8 In Cuzco, the accusers combined charges of maleficio and witchcraft with those of idolatry. Disregarding for a moment the native practices that inspired these accusations, these charges demonstrate that belief in demonology and evil hechizería could still dominate the reasoning of commoners and the local elite. Suspicion of maleficio had become common fare among them all. Late eighteenth-­ century charges of hechizería in the peripheral areas outside the Archdiocese of Lima continued to rest on notions of idolatry, superstitio, and maleficio developed during the sixteenth and seventeenth centuries. However, the behavior of accusers in Quito, Arequipa, and Cuzco appears to be more obviously informed by fear of social unrest and challenges to political authority than that of their limeñan counterparts in previous times. In Cuzco, the investigations into alleged cases of maleficio antedated the royal “Visita general del virreinato” by José Antonio de Areche in 1778–81, and the visitation by bishop Manuel Moscoso y Peralta (1779–89) in 1780. Both vigorously tried to eradicate not only Inca culture, but indigenous customs in general.9 In Arequipa, the civil authorities immediately tried to appease social tensions by implementing “civilizing missions,” such as redistribution of land. By the time persecution increased in these regions, hechizería was no longer feared as a threat to the spiritual well-­being of

weeping statues  231

a whole society, nor was it combated as part of the Spanish and Creole project to liberate the country from the demon’s grip. Hechizería no longer threatened the physical integrity of individual Christians, and its persecution did not serve to instill “true” notions of the workings of nature. Rather, the individual persecutions were driven by the struggle to increase social harmony, to enforce political authority, to eliminate obsolete cultural traits, and thus to create a more homogenous society. A subtle redefinition of Creole nationhood during this time served as a backdrop for these new accusations. The more that political powers (and local priests and local governors as the representatives of those powers) claimed paternalistic responsibility for integrating indigenous people into civil society, the easier it was for them to eliminate the elements they viewed as anachronistic. In some areas, then, secular powers challenged the prerogative of ecclesiastical powers and took on the role of redefining the nature of civil society. It is not part of the present project to determine what underlying economic, social, and conceptual shifts were responsible for this development, but in Quito and Arequipa the large-­scale transition from ecclesiastical to secular power that had taken place during the late sixteenth century was now reversed.10 One might be inclined to argue that the incidents described above were like shooting stars that vanished as quickly as they appeared in the geographical vastness of Peru. But the same cannot be said of eighteenth-­century persecutions in Trujillo, the most vigorous and systematic campaigns of all. Baltasar Jaime Martínez Compañón’s predecessors strove to emulate the example of persecutors in seventeenth-­ century Lima, appointing “notarios de las ydolatrías” and making priests and simple folk denounce curanderos, hechizeros, and those who healed without a license.11 During Martínez Compañón’s famous visita of 1782–85 (he was bishop from 1778 to 1790) two priests answered to his questionnaire and exhibited their extensive investigations into cases of hechizería.12 A number of different accusations—including veneration of huacas, offenses against Catholicism, superstitious healings, and pacts with the devil—led Marcos Marcelo, Domingo Atuncar, Maria de la “O,” and others into prison. Without going into a microhistorical analysis of the circumstances leading up to these convictions, we might find these accusations very similar to those encountered during the late phase of the persecution campaigns in the archdiocese of Lima. Why did the concern over hechizería shift from the metropolis to the periphery? Can the change be attributed solely to an overall di-

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minished public interest in hechizería and, on a local level, to shifts in power, or were conceptual shifts involved? To account for the movement of the central locus of persecution from the metropolis to the periphery, we must investigate—apart from shifts in the new political ideology due to the Bourbon reforms—the intellectual developments that began among the Jesuits in Lima during the second half of the seventeenth century.13 Back in 1634, Viceroy Esquilache had promoted scholasticism as the official instrument to combat idolatry and hechizería.14 However, some scholars in Lima and Cuzco had lost the interest in this official intellectual program by the later seventeenth century, and even more had fallen away by the eighteenth century. The new intellectual trends that we are about to analyze were, of course, not embraced by all intellectuals; their reach in the provinces, in particular, was uneven and halting. In distant and backward provinces such as Cajamarca, for instance, scholasticism remained predominant longer than in Lima, and to a certain extent even than in Quito and Cuzco, with their outstanding universities and colegios.15 It was mainly in Lima and among Jesuits and Jesuit-­inspired scholars that intellectuals began to undermine the importance and even the logic of demonology and scholastic reasoning. The interests of numerous scholars shifted focus from idolatry to natural philosophy. A link between the new natural philosophy and the changing discourse on hechizería can also be seen in the naturalistic reasoning that became prevalent among particular visitators and the defensors of the Indians. In Laraos in 1665, the defensor of the Indians tried to liberate a convict by drawing on the new naturalistic reasoning.16 Almost a hundred years later, a visitator in Trujillo argued with a rationalism that ridiculed the assumption that the instruments employed by the hechi­ zeros could inflict harm.17 He simply contended that the tools used by the suspect, Marcos Marcelo, did not accord with the effects desired. It is already well established that by the eighteenth century, interest in hechizería had become a phenomenon limited to scattered individuals—priests, local governors, the Audiencia in Quito, and some bishops—who thought that the implementation of Bourbon reforms required the control of society and all its deviants.18 Three less well known developments contributed to this shift of hechizería persecutions to the margins of political life: the underground development of antischolastic ideas, a new scientific interest among Jesuits, and the revolutionizing effects of Athanasius Kircher’s work in the field of technical magic.19

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The Jesuits and the underground enlightenment In 1667, the Inquisition of Lima was still far from being an old-­fashioned or defanged institution. On October 8, 1667, the inquisitor Martín de Ulloa and his colleagues had what they would have considered an unpleasant encounter with a French suspect named César Bandier.20 This Bandier was chameleon-­like. He had lived unobtrusively in many different societies, serving as a medical doctor for many different rulers. Prior to facing the inquisitors in Peru, Bandier consulted for the sultans of the Ottoman Empire, contacted Richelieu in France, and was defended by the Jesuits of Panama. Apparently, Bandier had enjoyed the protection of the Society of Jesus during a number of stages in his vagabond life. In fact, on the basis of his testimonies, the only source we have for his life, Bandier might be called an early modern global player. During his last years as a free man, Bandier was the personal tutor of the son of Peru’s viceroy, Conde de Santisteban. Never before, Bandier claimed, had the Inquisition developed a particular interest in his activities. Why then did Peru’s Inquisition investigate his case? What lay at the heart of his imprisonment? The answer is simple: heresy and erudite magic. César Bandier was in many respects an exceptional individual. According to the inquisitors, his thinking was comprehensively scandalous. He claimed that Judaism, Christianity, and Islam were as nothing compared to the law of nature. He thought that the soul of the world rested in the ocean. Bandier denied the existence of the Christian God, but believed in the universal rule of nature and reason. He claimed that the human soul was as mortal as the human body. He denied that Adam had ever lived, or that the great deluge had covered the Earth. He vehemently denied the existence of the devil, arguing that he had never encountered him. Bandier’s quest for experience thus not only conflicted with church doctrine but entirely bypassed it. Bandier mocked religious relics as universally false (although relics were a point of Jesuit pride) and denied the immaculate status of the Virgin Mary. He testified that he healed with herbs and with the properties of nature—not with the help of a demon. He said that the god of nature had one day illuminated him and asked him for service. Bandier thus felt himself to be a prophet of God. He argued that one could and should venerate this (new) god in every creature in the universe: in toads, in caves, in humans, in water, and in the sky. Bandier alleged that this belief system—what we might call his pantheism—was known in Islam

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and to the Indians. Consistently, he denied the “Aristotelian religion” of Christianity. He did not approve of the distinction made by the church between the supernatural and the natural. He reported that on the basis of his authority as a medical doctor in Lima, Indians worshipped him just as some Judeans had worshipped Jesus Christ. Without doubt, Bandier considered himself to be one of the elite wise men who belonged to the entourage of the temple of Solomon.21 According to Bandier, Jesus was simply one among the skilled curanderos, men with extraordinary knowledge of herbs. He thus alleged that Jesus’ powers were grounded in nature and knowledge, and not in his status as the son of God. It seems that Bandier wanted to follow Christ’s example in establishing a new cult. He therefore conceived of a new order: the Order of the Christinos. The order was to be filled with medical doctors who operated according to the law of nature. Bandier had a clear vision of the order’s duties. Members were to have access to the centers of power in various nations and use their status to make known the universal rule of the law of nature. Bandier’s principal goal was certainly to spread belief in the law of nature, but he never achieved his aims. In his arguments before the Inquisition, Bandier exhibited an unusual esteem for Peru’s indigenous people. He claimed, in fact, that Indians were wiser than Spaniards, for they already were following the law of nature. At the very least, he said, Indians did not believe a piece of bread to be God. He conceded, however, that consulting an idol, as some Indians did, was as great an error. Bandier’s attribution of superior wisdom to Indians was certainly unusual in Lima’s Creole world. But in the midst of all these heresies, Bandier inserted another interesting assertion. He claimed that half of the Jesuits in Peru were secret advocates of the law of nature, though their demonology denigrated the poor Indians. Publicly, he said, Jesuits wore the façade of church orthodoxy. But in secret, they thought differently. Who was this César Bandier? He claimed to have been an alchemist in France (where people of his eminence were not persecuted). There he had composed an alchemical treatise dedicated to Richelieu. By his own account, Bandier had ventured on many voyages throughout the world. From the scarce information we have, it seems that he arrived in Peru after having lived for two years on the Canary Islands. He had been sent to Peru by a Jesuit named Herrada, whom he had met while traveling in Havana or Cartagena. Bandier landed in Paita, where he stayed for an indeterminate period until the arrival of Viceroy Conde de Santisteban. After Bandier was able to cure the viceroy’s malarial tertian fever, he

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was rewarded with the status of “médico de cámara” and librarian. Last but not least, the viceroy appointed him to teach his son, Don Manuel, who received lessons in the arts, logic, and cosmography. But Bandier was not content to simply reside in the brilliant entourage of the viceroy’s family. On the advice of the Jesuit Herrada, Bandier wanted to travel to Spain to recover the titles that would have documented his formal education as a medical doctor (all his papers had been lost in Turkey). But the viceroy forbade him to travel. His other grand plan also failed, as his petitions to Rome and the Council of the Indies for permission to found his Order of the Christinos were denied. After these setbacks, Bandier apparently settled on a more modest career, as physician in the Santa Ana Hospital. His esteem for Indians, their healings, and their attitude toward nature very likely began in this period. As we might recall, various victims of the “extirpación de la idolatría” campaigns worked in this same hospital. Seen in the context of late seventeenth-­century intellectual trends in Europe, Bandier’s visions were radical. He was an admirer of the anonymous treatise Tribus impostoribus (on the three impostors: Moses, Jesus, and Muhammad) and perhaps of Baruch Spinoza and Pietro Pomponazzi.22 In Peru and the wider colonial world, his ideas were even more unconventional, not least because he acknowledged indigenous knowledge and because he accused the Jesuits of a double standard. Unsurprisingly, perhaps, Bandier did not fare well. He was accused of being a heretic and the founder of a new sect. In the end, Bandier was convicted for believing in the primacy of the law of nature over Christianity. In a public auto-­da-­fé, he was forced to abjure all his claims. He was further punished with an “excommunicación mayor” and a permanent ban from Peru and Madrid. He was denied the right to wear silk or arms in public or to mount a horse. And finally, he was no longer permitted to heal in public or private. Even though these punishments meant the end of Bandier’s life in Peru, we might wonder why he was spared even worse. He could have been sentenced to the galley or even death, a fate met by many Marranos (Spanish Jews forced to convert to Christianity) in Peru. The only plausible reason is that Bandier was handed over to the inquisitional court in Seville, which was to finally decide his fate. Lima’s diligent town chronicler, José de Mugaburu, considered Bandier “the greatest heretic of these times.”23 While Bandier was facing the inquisitorial tribunal, life in Lima followed its regular course, with earth tremors, the threat of pirates, the occasional intrusion of

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the miraculous, and the crushing weight of ecclesiastical power.24 One week after Bandier’s auto-­da-­fé, the members of the inquisitional court organized a solemn procession through town. The Jesuits and other friars followed with candles in their hands. Four days later, the archbishop repeated the same ritual. Apart from that, nothing exciting happened in Lima. Worthy of an entry in Mugaburu’s collection of chitchat, for example, was the fact that the condessa left the palace on the morning of June 5 to attend Mass while her husband was on a visita in Arequipa. In other news, José Laureano de Mena, priest of the parish of San Arcelo in Lima, was himself punished for not having punished an hechizero. The native woman María Sosa reported that she had been mistreated in the Santa Ana Hospital. The Inquisition searched for secret coca sellers. But only one year earlier, Ruiz Lozano had observed a comet that Bandier immediately equated with the star of Bethlehem. Indeed, in the everyday life of Lima, Bandier’s claims had been truly spectacular, and even more striking when viewed against the backdrop of the dismal history of erudite magi in Peru. Up until 1667, Peru’s Inquisition had dealt with only a handful of erudite alchemists, chiromancers, and talismanic astrologers. Unlike in Mexico, where the Inquisition uncovered many erudite magi and astrologers crafting magical rings and prophesying the end of the world, little information exists about Peru’s erudite magi.25 Whether this silence reflects a lack of magi in Peru or a lack of interest by Peruvian inquisitors is unknown. We do know, however, that only a few magi left visible traces in Peruvian history. They seem to have devoted themselves mainly to using magical tricks to hunt down treasures, or they spent their time in chiromancy, astrology, or the study of how to disappear.26 In 1580, the bishop of Charcas imprisoned Diego de la Rosa, an embroiderer and magus, accusing him of being a necromancer and an hechizero.27 De la Rosa was one of the few erudite magicians to come to Peru to live the life of a Renaissance magus. He even interacted with indigenous people, interviewing local healers to find herbs that attracted women. Yet his great aim was to use his magical skills and indigenous informants to find riches underneath huacas—an undertaking that Delrío claimed to be inspired by demons and a common fare among Spaniards in Peru.28 But before he could establish himself as a rich man, he was apprehended; ultimately his case was transferred to Quito, where the bishop sentenced him to ten years in prison. A similar fate was met by his friend Gutiérrez de Logroño, who was imprisoned in Trujillo for using a magic ring that allegedly helped him

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escape from trouble. Gutiérrez de Logroño was also sentenced to leave the city for a number of years.29 Another of these erudite magicians, Fray Pedro de Mendoça, was a member of the order of San Bernardo. He was convicted of being a chiromantic. In Trujillo, he had apparently read the hand of an unknown Jesuit and of certain Indians in order to tell the future.30 There also seems to have been a network of European-­ type erudite magi in Trujillo that attracted Jesuits, Mercedarians, and other friars. Much like folk ritual specialists, these erudite magi interacted with indigenous religious specialists, adapting some of their practices and materials—but one doesn’t know more. While folk ritual specialists were more willing to adopt knowledge from indigenous people, both the erudite magi and ritual specialists were generally less dismissive of indigenous people’s crafts than were the majority of Catholic priests. But with two exceptions, neither erudite magi nor folk ritual specialists ever gained political influence. These exceptions were Sarmiento de Gamboa and César Bandier. And perhaps not surprisingly, Bandier’s fate resembled that of his predecessor in the previous century in several respects. Both individuals were persecuted by the Inquisition as erudite—and demonic—magi. Sarmiento de Gamboa was condemned as a talismanic astrologer and necromancer, Bandier as an alchemist, superstitious healer, founder of a sect, and heretic. Before their confrontation with the Inquisition, both men had served the highest political power in the country: the viceroy. In the end, however, Bandier did not have Sarmiento de Gamboa’s luck. Convicted in a time of a political vacuum, Bandier lacked the support of an authority that could have liberated him from the grip of the Inquisition. On December 10, 1666, the Condessa de Santisteban, wife of Bandier’s now-­deceased patron, left the harbor of Lima. The new viceroy, the Conde de Lemos, would arrive on November 9, 1667—a month after Bandier’s trial. Unlike Sarmiento, who was released from Loyasa’s charge because Viceroy Toledo needed the skill of the officer and historian, no great political power worked on behalf of Bandier. Even the Jesuits had turned their backs on him. What had happened? Was Bandier correct in charging that the Jesuits had a double moral standard? Indeed, Bandier’s claim the Jesuits were clandestine advocates of the law of nature arguably contained some truth.31 Beginning in the seventeenth century, Jesuits in both Europe and Peru had started to encourage an interest in natural magic—and natural magic and its attendant belief structure did resemble belief in the universal law of na-

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ture. European Jesuit scholars such as Eusebius Nieremberg (1595–1658), Hernando Castrillo (1586–1667), Christoph Clavius (1537–1612), Athanasius Kircher (1602–80), Caspar Schott (1608–66), and Johannes Zahn (1641–1707), a Premonstratensian, were all popular among Peruvian intellectuals. Furthermore, by the 1660s, Peru’s own scholarly production had blossomed, inspired not least by Viceroy Diego de Benavides del Puerto, Conde de Santisteban y de la Cueva (1661–66).

In official parl ance: Jesuits as repl acements for indigenous herbalists At the same time that the Third Council of Lima was officially burying the utopian role envisioned by the Franciscans for indigenous herbalists, Jesuit interest in native plants and healing objects was covertly on the rise. Peruvian Jesuits turned into experts on materia médica in South America as the order sent specimens to both Madrid and Rome. The world-­famous pharmacy of the Peruvian Jesuit Agustín Salombrini contained many substances that came from stock used by indigenous healers.32 In 1660, Lima’s pharmacist was admonished to keep the cost of medicine low, a directive interpreted as a mandate to buy high-­ quality drugs from Paraguay and Chile instead of Europe.33 A few visitators, working under the auspices of Lobo Guerrero during the first quarter of the seventeenth century, were already trying to gather herbal knowledge from persecuted hechizeros, but their efforts were scattered and without much effect.34 Unlike the Franciscans in Mexico, however, Peruvian Jesuits never openly admitted to interviewing religious specialists to obtain knowledge of herbs and never delegated social power to them. Instead, Jesuits presented themselves as the true religious specialists that could meet the Indians’ needs. Since the Society of Jesus’ primary official task was evangelization and not the hunt for materia médica, Jesuits who undertook such investigations during the early seventeenth century usually had to work almost surreptitiously.35 To discover the early history of knowledge transfer between indigenous people and Jesuit fathers, we must read between the lines of the official Jesuit reports; by the mid-­ seventeenth century, the results of the Jesuit hunt for materia médica can be seen more clearly. In their missions among the Chunchos near Huamanga, for example, Jesuits searched for medicinal plants.36 Among the Mojos, a nine-­day boat ride away from Spanish civilization, the Jesuits hailed the purgatives of the natives as remedies for

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outsiders’ fevers.37 This interest in indigenous medicinal knowledge was by no means universal. Indeed, some Jesuits still feared that the devil was the informant of indigenous hechizeros. But for other men, such as Bernabé Cobo, these conventional interpretations had lost their power to deter.38 Unlike many of his Spanish contemporaries, Cobo was the product of Creole institutions of higher learning. And his investigations into local remedies enabled Jesuit pharmacists and others to turn themselves into a new kind of religious specialist.39 By the late seventeenth and early eighteenth centuries, most elite Spanish and Creole natural scientists were Jesuits (as discussed below), and they produced more publications and manuscripts on the properties of South American natural objects than did the members of any other order.40 Though the Jesuits did not lessen their focus on religious themes in favor of natural science, their strategy of extracting knowledge from disempowered hechizeros advanced them into the most elite circles of Europe’s naturalists and botanists. The task of becoming Creole experts on South American nature was laborious; as we will see, it required the backbone of the transatlantic Jesuit network.41 In Peru, Jesuits often struggled to brush aside theological reservations regarding their remedies, as the case of coca demonstrates. The transatlantic interest in coca and in the bezoar stone are two examples that, when viewed from the Peruvian perspective, demonstrate the crucial impact of the Jesuit network on Creole activities.

Entangled in the jungle of prejudices: Jesuits and the demand for coca leaves In 1605, the European botanist Charles L’Ecluse enthusiastically commented in his Exoticorum libri decem that he had finally received a specimen of the plant called coca. He noted, “I have waited for many years to see the famous plant coca that the Indians use on every occasion. . . . It is of great interest to see how the Indians lose their reason when they mix tobacco with coca.”42 But what he found fascinating, Spaniards and Creoles in Peru simply found useful. While L’Ecluse waited in his hometown in the Netherlands for ships to arrive providing him with specimens, the natives of Huarochirí dictated to Francisco de Ávila’s scribe their myths about Pariacaca. From these myths, the clergy understood that coca was the prime indigenous offering to Pariacaca and other huacas. Andeans listened to the grinding sounds that were produced when huacas chewed on coca leaves.43 Chewing

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coca had long been the prerogative of huacas and the Incas, but once the Spaniards invaded the Andes, Spanish chroniclers observed that common Indians began to chew on the green leaves.44 The disruption caused by the conquest had allowed the hierarchy of coca consumption to break down. When the silver mines of Potosí were discovered by Spaniards in 1545, Spanish officials aggressively turned coca leaves into a national commodity. As is well known, the productivity of the indigenous population in the silver mines of Potosí was doubled thanks to their intake of coca. Thus, every day hundreds of mules carried innumerable chests of coca on the trade routes from lower-­altitude regions east of Cuzco to the high planes of Potosí. The gruesome exploitation of Indians “fed with coca” received ample criticism but was defended even more powerfully.45 In the face of economic benefits to mining companies, whose workers ate and slept less when they chewed coca, laws designed to protect indigenous miners were widely ignored. One powerful concern regarding coca involved the demon. In 1567, Matienzo argued that it was not the plant but the demon that was responsible for coca’s suppression of workers’ appetites.46 The Second Council of Lima prohibited coca for Indians because it harmed their imaginatio.47 The following council mentioned coca exclusively as a superstitious instrument in offerings to huacas.48 Yet José de Acosta denied that the devil operated in and through coca: “The Indians say that it gives them strength, and it is a great treat for them. Many grave men think it is a superstition and pure imagination. To tell the truth, I do not think it pure imagination; rather, I believe that it produces strength and spirit in the Indians, for effects can be seen that cannot be attributed to imagination[.]”49 Acosta had no comment on the effect of coca on the Spanish body, beyond simply stating that it tasted like leather. Arriaga took a step away from Acosta’s naturalism, exclaiming that coca was used everywhere “for divinations, bedevilments, healings, and offerings.”50 But from the mid-­seventeenth century onward, as a Baconian interest in nature dispelled religious reservations, the worries of other Jesuits about coca’s impact on Christianization diminished. Like the Jesuit pharmacist Salombrini, Cobo ignored the possible harmful effects of coca on Indians to focus on its benefits in treating different bodily ailments.51 Using Hippocratic categories to identify the properties of coca, Cobo claimed that the leaves helped in cases of flatulence, digestive problems, and fractures.52 He even admitted to having once chewed coca himself when he was suffering from a toothache (reporting that the pain had ceased shortly thereafter). Owing to his constant em-

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phasis on eyewitness authority, Cobo documented his personal afflictions in an almost Goethean fashion. Indeed, by 1653, personal eyewitness accounts were valued more than the materia médica by the ancient authority Dioscorides.53 But while Creole Jesuits developed a new perspective on South American nature thanks to the medicinal interest of their European correspondents, the Inquisition continued to suspect idolatry everywhere. In 1668, the Inquisition prohibited the sale of coca.54 This ban lasted until the inquisitorial court disbanded in 1804.55 When Amédée Frézier visited Lima in 1716, he noted that coca was still prohibited by the Inquisition. But as increasing numbers of erudite European travelers flocked to Peru, Creole natural scientists set aside their moral reservations and began to praise the herbal remedy.56

The transatl antic search for an ugly “stone”: The bezoar No other New World stone—including the emerald and the piedra Hua­ manga—stirred the emotions of scholars on either side of the Atlantic more profoundly than did the bezoar stone. And no other order worked more vigorously to promote it than did the Jesuits.57 The bezoar stone is a rather unimpressive black, brown, or yellow kidney stone that can be found in camelids such as llamas, vicuñas, and guanacos. Indigenous people had valued it prior to the arrival of the Spaniards, believing that it promoted the fertility of their animals.58 Creoles and Europeans believed instead that it provided an antidote to poison (a worry of many wealthy individuals). Calancha and Cobo agreed on the reason for the stone’s effectiveness: the camelid had eaten salubrious herbs whose beneficial influence was concentrated in the stone. During colonial times, the bezoar stone produced by vicuñas was especially valued and thus especially expensive. Nicolas Monardes, Ulisse Aldrovandi, Charles L’Ecluse, Francisco Hernández, Eusebius Nieremberg, Hernando Castrillo, Athanasius Kircher, Caspar Schott, Johannes Bisselius, and Johannes Zahn were all eager to receive specimens.59 These scholars had read the treatises written on the bezoar during antiquity, and were accordingly already familiar with its properties. The Peruvian bezoar stone came to replace the Persian as the variety most often imported into Europe.60 And when Cobo reported that the bezoar was effective not only against poison but also against melancholy and the sufferings of the heart, the interest of the scholars of Europe—an unusually melancholic group—intensified.61

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But in Peru, efforts to satisfy the European demand for bezoars were causing trouble. In 1601, Nicolas Mastrillo Durán, a Jesuit from Julí, urged his fellows with some alarm to slow down their search for bezoars: “there is a great confusion in searching for bezoar stones so as to send them to Europe[;] . . . we have agitated [the people] since the [bezoars] are worth a lot of silver.”62 And Calancha claimed that the twelve-­year-­old boy who had revealed the secret properties of the stone to the Spaniards “was almost sacrificed by his fellow Indians.”63 The stone’s desirability as an antidote against poison makes more sense in Peru, with its enormous biodiversity, than in Europe. Poisonous snakes and plants were a deadly reality in the Andes, and the clergy feared potential attacks by hechizeros through poison.64 We have not yet discovered precisely how Jesuits acquired their bezoar stones, nor the details of paying for them. We do know that Jesuit pharmacies regularly carried bezoars, and that European natural philosophers and their descendants in Lima were interested in more than bezoars’ medicinal virtues. Indeed, bezoars became part of the European cabinets of curiosities.65 Don Francisco de Toledo sent “a big bezoar stone, adorned with four barrels [sic] of gold” to the queen of Spain with a note requesting that she send the present to her mother in Germany.66 Cabinets of curiosities also existed in Peru, though on much smaller scale than in Europe.67 As the story of the bezoar shows, Peruvian Jesuits met the European demand for Andean natural marvels, thereby serving both their scientific and their economic interests. The Jesuits also became multinational tradesmen of hierba mate or hierba de Paraguay. By the eighteenth century, quinine, or “Peruvian or Jesuit bark,” joined other Jesuit commodities that had crossed the Atlantic since the year 1630 and became a fashionable topic for students writing their medical dissertations. But unlike in Europe, in Peru the search for the hidden laws of nature served two more practical goals of the Jesuits. First, they hoped that their knowledge would replace the wisdom of indigenous specialists, enabling them to supplant hechizeros as the exclusive caretakers of indigenous needs. Second, information derived from natural science could enable Jesuits to outwit the demon, permitting them to anticipate when the demon might strike. Thus, when properties of nature remained hidden from their prying eyes, Jesuits felt a blow not just to their self-­esteem, but also to their sense of purpose. Until late in the seventeenth century, Jesuits with a European interest in natural science were able to navigate the minefield of theo-

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logical suspicions, but they still considered the Andeans to be confused accomplices of the demon. Jesuits might depend on Andean knowledge to gain an advantage in their competition with the Franciscans, for example, but they by no means treated Andeans as peers or shared information with them. In the end, Jesuit knowledge was well guarded, shared with only a few. Yet despite this sense of superiority and these reservations, natural scientists like Cobo had hesitantly begun to revaluate indigenous knowledge—and, indirectly, indigenous people. Because Cobo had an interest in correcting Spanish and Creole assumptions about indigenous hechizeros, his chapter on hechizería is a careful attempt to put received opinions right.68 All the same, he did not launch any new investigations into the subject of hechizeros; rather, he recycled information from Polo de Ondegardo. We might view Cobo as marking the beginning of a new shift in the Jesuit confrontation with indigenous hechizeros. His critical Baconian inventory of nature—and indirectly of native wisdom—began to replace attempts to investigate and suppress indigenous (idolatrous) customs. Jesuits set aside their worries about idolatry, focusing instead on natural philosophy to aid them in combating the demons. Hechizeros ceased to be the center of Jesuit concern.69

Natural magic in a transatl antic setting While Peruvian Jesuits sent specimens and observations to Rome, European Jesuits such as Eusebius Nieremberg, Hernando Castrillo, Athanasius Kircher, Caspar Schott, and the Premonstratensian Johannes Zahn collected the specimens and, in particular, the information that the worldwide Jesuit network provided. Even more clearly than their Peruvian fellows, European Jesuits exhibited a steadfast trust in the laws of nature, just as César Bandier had claimed. These Jesuits shared an astonishing curiosity regarding the hidden secrets of nature, as well as the dream that their order might master all explanations of the world. The order appears to have underscored this claim of authority by constantly recycling Jesuit-­generated information, a characteristic move in the seventeenth-­century transatlantic exchange of information. Nieremberg and his disciple Castrillo are representative Jesuit scholars. They believed that a profusion of theories concealed the truth and harmed the Society. According to Castrillo, whose work was read in the New World as well as in Europe, a hidden thread united the world, grounded in the rule of the law of nature and in the struggle for knowledge of its

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properties.70 Castrillo argued that wisdom about nature was unequally distributed among the world’s inhabitants. Because Old World magicians had a head start in clarity and precision over the rest of the world, the West outweighed the East. Yet human curiosity about nature was a constant, found everywhere in the world. Castrillo admonished Old and New World scholars interested in nature’s occult qualities that they had an incomparable opportunity to use their new exposure to an unfamiliar natural world to finally refute erroneous conjectures about the true nature of nature. Castrillo’s call for experiencia was Baconian, but he mixed it with a Jesuit trust in the explanatory strength of the book of Genesis and a Trismegistian wit. He urged his brethren to continue investigating nature, for he regretted, “[Every day] we step unknowingly on many herbs and worms that if we knew their virtues we would look out for them. [For example,] the cochineal that we call by the name of San Anton and that we breed underneath clay jugs is a fantastic medicine to hold back the flow of urine.”71 What could be more valuable than helping oneself from the pharmacy of God? The expansion of interest in nature in seventeenth-­century Spain certainly went beyond the meager reference to the study of nature in the Ratio studiorum. But the same surge occurred among those seventeenth-­century Jesuits of central Europe who leaned more toward technical magic: Kircher and Schott. Their intellectual influence on Peruvian Jesuits is better documented than that of Nieremberg and Castrillo, though the books of the former were common in colonial libraries as well.72 Late seventeenth-­century Peruvian Jesuit scholars proved little less romantic than their Spanish fellows. More and more, Jesuits followed and elaborated on the work of Cobo, pursuing the same quest for knowledge about nature. Some of them investigated the earthly paradise that the Madrileño León Pinelo (ca. 1590–1660) had claimed lay in front of their feet. Others, like Nicolás Mascardi (1625–73) and Juan Ramón Coninck (1623–1709), were astronomers and mathematicians who were inspired by their correspondence with Kircher. Every treatise by Kircher—be it the Mundus subterraneaus, the Oedipus Aegyptiacus, the Arce Noah, the Ars magna sciendi, or the Ars magna lucis et umbrae— enjoyed wide diffusion in colonial libraries.73 It has been said that the Jesuit mathematician, geographer, and astronomer Ramón Coninck was the most avid seventeenth-­century collector of Kircher’s books. During the second half of the seventeenth century, Coninck was Peru’s official cosmographer, charged with drawing maps of the region for the Spanish king. He also designed the defensive wall around the port of Callao and

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was a chaplain in the service of the Conde de Santisteban. Significantly, Coninck’s treatise Cubus, et sphaera geometrice duplicata (1696) begins with the story of a speaking statue that poses a geometric riddle: the statue of Apollo asks how to duplicate a cube. Coninck appears to have believed that it was the demon that spoke through the statue, but gave an answer to the geometric riddle nevertheless.74 And he praised Kircher’s contribution to the solution of the riddle; Kircher had served him, he said, like a torch in darkness. Yet Kircher’s authority did not protect Coninck from the anonymous “P.V.,” who apparently criticized his mathematical solution. Coninck’s defense amounted to a simple claim: “the Jesuits are the mother of all wisdom.”75 During the seventeenth century, Athanasius Kircher served as the center around which the Jesuit universe revolved.76 From the comfort of his Roman home, Kircher collected information from the whole world. On a much smaller scale, Martín Delrío had anticipated Kircher’s struggle for encyclopedic knowledge, but lacking direct engagement in the Jesuit network, he had to gather his information from archives. Actively drawing on sources throughout the whole world, Kircher had to read the letters he received. Kircher’s authority and interest in everything—occult and not occult, native and foreign—motivated and guided a cohort of New World intellectuals from Brazil, Santiago de Chile, Lima, and Puebla.77 These scientists were eager to send to Europe new scientific data about stars, comets, and the revolutions of the universe. Nicolás Mascardi, a Chilean, observed the skies each night and reported to Kircher on the position of comets.78 The most productive Peruvian Jesuit scholars of the seventeenth and eighteenth centuries were all inspired by Kircher. These included Coninck and Mascardi, and two generations later, José Eusebio de Llano y Zapata (1721–80) and Cosme Bueno (1711–98). The impact of this one European Jesuit on his personal contacts and, indirectly, on even the most remote missionary outposts of Peru was profound. Rather than persecuting hechizeros, Jesuits in missions all over the Americas began to pursue scientific interests. The Jesuits of Paraguay, who established their harmonious cohabitation with the Guaraní some distance from the center of power, developed a deep interest in nature and the properties of nature. These Paraguayan Jesuits became specialists in South American botany, an interest that reached its peak in the writings of José Sánchez Labrador (1717–99).79 The Jesuits in what is today Chile anticipated their lead.80 But how did Kircher’s knowledge and interests reach Peru’s scholars on the far side of the Atlantic?81 Years of dust have covered the approxi-

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mately 30,000 books in the library of the Mercedarians of Cuzco. But even now, on the back of the first shelf on the right-­hand side, one finds Athanasius Kircher’s Itinerarium exstaticum. We know that Sor Juana and Valentin Stansel were enthusiastic readers of the subsequent Iter exstaticum. In the copy in Cuzco (whose provenance is not entirely established),82 we find a marginal comment by a man named Gerónimo Aldadado who admonished either himself or his fellow brethren: “The reader who reads this [book] will receive lots of benefits. I say that he who knows to read and understand this [book] will find many curiosities. I wish that God will liberate me from him [who understands this treatise] and protect me from the one who wrote this.” 83 Aldadado claimed to be a priest in Huainacota, close to the Bolivian town of Cochabamba; perhaps he felt threatened by the study of natural history because he believed it to be diabolically inspired. Though Aldadado’s reasons for fear remain a mystery, we do know that Kircher was widely cited. In 1717, Pedro José Bermúdez de la Torre y Solier composed a hymn to the new viceroy, Don Carmine Nicolao Caracciolo (1716–20). Drawing on astrology, he made the sun—an emblem for the viceroy— stop at the various signs of the zodiac. When the sun came into Aries, an alignment promising glory and fame to the city, the author praised it as the sign of benign charity. The printer immediately followed this section on the qualities of Aries with a reference to Kircher’s Oedipus Aegyptiacus.84 Kircher’s impact on Peruvian intellectuals was neither entirely unique nor confined to the Jesuits alone. Caspar Schott and Johannes Zahn also played a part in spreading natural philosophy, alchemy, and technical magic.85 The Franciscans in Ocopa and the Mercedarians in Cuzco collected the writings of all three, but the use to which these books were put remains obscure.86 A few pieces of historical evidence allow just a glimpse into the new zeitgeist among Creole scholars, developed below the radar of official proclamations and university statutes. An anonymous aspiring alchemist in the Convent of Ocopa with a great interest in alchemy read Kircher’s Magnes sive de arte magnetica, writing comments on a recipe for stamp adherent and on instructions for mixing mercury with silver to distill a “Tree of Diana.”87 An anonymous Franciscan poked fun at a copy of Schott’s Physicae curiosae: “[This is] a book of solemn nonsense that does have some wit. An attentive reading, apart from causing some laughs, is capable of healing the most stubborn hypochondriac. It’s proven.”88 Another anonymous Mercedarian reader commented on Kircher’s Itinerarium exstaticum:

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“the reader of this book can count himself lucky [for] he will receive great benefits from its reading; this is a complete copy.” Even though we have been left with no monographs ready for our historical analysis, these scattered comments should be taken as symptomatic of a new phase in the intellectual history of colonial Peru. But this is not to say that the new scientific approach to nature had the same effect on all. It will come as no surprise that Peruvian scholars interpreted Kircher in contradictory ways. While the Roman Jesuit inspired some overseas intellectuals to undertake new scientific explorations, others responded to Kircher’s works with a deep-­rooted piety, or even awe and fear. Strong interest in the occult properties of nature (also known as natural magic), together with trust in the usefulness of collecting scientific data à la Delrío, Nieremberg, Bacon, and Kircher, was often motivated not by a desire for a deeper understanding of nature itself but by fear of the demon. Investigations into the occult virtues of nature might help scholars to outwit and combat the demon rather than prompting them to question the idea of the demon. But there was one who was able to take this last step—to annihilate the demon itself.

Weeping statues and the revolutionizing impact of technical magic Throughout the later colonial period, Creole scholars concentrated on two important questions. First, how did the demon interact with indigenous people? Second, when and how did God send his messages to human beings in South America? Two scholars stand at opposite ends of the late colonial spectrum in their understandings of the miraculous and the demonic: José Eusebio de Llano y Zapata and Cosme Bueno. Both took Kircher as their guide, but the two used Kircher’s wisdom in very different ways. To illustrate continuities and discontinuities between their different scholarly approaches and conclusions, we will consider one issue: the question of weeping statues. By examining how Kircher helped transform the perception of these statues, we will see his impact on the concept of supernatural and preternatural interventions in nature. On October 28, 1746, Lima was jolted by a heavy earthquake. Though hardly an unusual event, this tremor, along with its many aftershocks, proved particularly violent. The earth shook off and on for four months, quieting only on February 16, 1747. José Eusebio de Llano y Zapata, an intellectual with affinities to classical and Jesuit erudition, was in-

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spired by this mid-­eighteenth-­century earthquake to write a lengthy historical account of all the earthquakes that had ever occurred in Peru.89 Like a Roman antiquarian carefully locating the ruins he visited on a map of the antique city, Llano y Zapata placed the earthquakes on a map of God’s miraculous interventions in the Peruvian past. Famed in his day as the best Latinist in South America, and an avid reader of Zahn and Kircher, he is now known among historians primarily for his anti-­Aristotelian stance. When the destructive earthquake hit, Llano y Zapata was still in Peru. The 1746 earthquake apparently destroyed several streets of Lima along with the inquisitorial prison; the convicted mulatto Bernabé Murillo Otalora was very likely paralyzed when he was struck by the red stones crumbling from his dank prison cell. But in his Carta o diario (1748), Llano y Zapata connects earthquakes with miracles, giving several credulous and favorable accounts of miracle-­ working statues and pictures that have the power to mollify the destructive powers of earthquakes. Many of these statues have a particular quality: they can weep and sweat. Llano y Zapata tells us that on September 29, 1675, thus seventy-­ one years earlier, on the occasion of one of Lima’s many violent earthquakes, the picture of “Nuestro Señora de la Misericordia” in the Jesuit residence in Callao began to shed tears. Beads of sweat appeared on the painted female face.90 Immediately, Lima’s inhabitants embraced the holy image as their last resource and hope, taking it into the streets in a desperate procession. According to Llano y Zapata, Pope Clemens XII promised a complete indulgence for those who prayed under the image. In a similar manner, twelve years later, in the chapel of the Afro-­ Peruvian hospital San Bartholomew in Lima, the image of “Nuestra Señora de la Soledad” began to weep when another earthquake hit. Almost a hundred years after that earthquake, and twenty years after Llano y Zapata’s description, an ecclesiastical tribunal in 1776 was still in the process of verifying the tears of that Madonna, but the people of Lima did not feel compelled to wait for official authorization: they had begun approaching the picture at the onset of every new earthquake. In Lima, supernatural powers were not confined to manifestations of weeping or sweating. The 1746 earthquake was stopped by the Señor de los Milagros, a copy of a much earlier image from Lima’s Church of the Nazarenes that itself was endowed with supernatural qualities. A pious yet unskilled Afro-­Peruvian artist had been assigned the task of painting a portrait of the crucified Christ. Unimpressed with the work of the Afro-­Peruvian, authorities ordered an Indian to remove

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the picture. When he tried to wash off the paint, the image withstood the wet sponge. Neither the Indian nor anyone else was able to erase it. Whether this durability was natural or divine, the picture remained— and, perhaps impressed by its resilience, people began to take a copy of it onto the streets of Lima whenever an earthquake struck.91 A few important elements of the Peruvian discourse on miracle-­working statues are apparent from this story. First, we should note that the logic of such images and statues required emphasizing that they were not fabrications of skilled human hands but rather objects endowed with God’s grace. The creation of the Señor de los Milagros—like that of the Virgin of Copacabana—by a skilled craftsman would have suggested that miraculous properties of the statue could have been the result of technical magic rather than of supernatural powers. It is also significant that in the stories of Llano y Zapata and others, miracle-­working statues never talked—even though Jesuits and others made Peru appear more prone to miracles than any other place on earth. Saints emerged in Lima and in the missions in greater number than elsewhere.92 The image of Stanislao Kostka, for example, worked one of its miracles in the New World in the late seventeenth century.93 The vicissitudes of colonial discourse on the miraculous and the demonic ultimately suggest that the decrease in demonic activities in the late colonial period left space for the expansion of God’s gracious gifts: the miraculous. To a historian, the increase in reports of miraculous events and decrease in reports of demonic activities signal less about demons than about clerical interest: the eyes of those who had previously reported on demonic activities simply turned in another direction. Moreover, Christian images and statues were silent precisely because Peru already had an abundance of talking images in the form of indigenous huacas. Speaking through images became an unacknowledged prerogative of the devil, whereas the language of signs was considered to be an instrument of God. Evidence for this distinction appears as early as the writings of Felipe Guaman Poma de Ayala, who described a curious boulder near Sacsayhuaman. Apparently, Inca Topa Yupanqui had ordered that this stone be taken to Huánuco, but it “did not want to move” and instead shed tears of blood. In this story, Guaman Poma portrayed an indigenous sacred object as obeying the laws of typical Catholic miracles. The Inca stone wept but—unlike many other indigenous huacas—did not talk.94 No contemporary, of course, reflected on this idiosyncrasy. And yet it seems that these parameters informed the discourse on indigenous idolatry and Catholic miracles, prohibiting

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similarities between miraculous statues and demonic indigenous objects—between miracles and technical magic. As for Kircher’s influence, while Llano y Zapata readily extended his Peruvian list of miracle-­working statues, he felt compelled to cite Kircher in his Resolución physico-­mathematica (1743) as his final authority on hieroglyphic wisdom: “I conclude by saying that the Mighty often uses natural causes to make human beings read the divine wisdom inscribed into heaven, earth, and the elements—it is like reading hieroglyphs. Kircher in Phisiolog. nov. de Cometar. natur.” 95 And he did not shy away from boasting of being Kircher’s only true Peruvian disciple. Most of his Peruvian contemporaries, he alleged, read Kircher and Schott only for their beautiful frontispieces. But had he lived long enough to read it, even Llano y Zapata would probably have revised that statement after becoming acquainted with the work of his fellow Peruvian Cosme Bueno. Llano y Zapata cited Kircher to provide authority for his unspectacular orthodox vision of the world, ignoring Kircher’s revolutionizing potential, which unfolded most radically only in the late eighteenth century. After the royal expulsion of 1767, when the last Jesuits had left their easternmost mission of Peru for Lima and the ships to Europe, new generations of scholars began to deconstruct Jesuit reasoning by drawing on Kircher himself.96 A European-­turned-­Creole scientist brought about the final stage in the evolution of the Andean-­Christian dialogue regarding hechizería. With Bueno—a man who stands at the conceptual end of our investigation—Creole interest in New World natural science was finally transformed into a sword against demonology. More than a hundred years after Kircher’s death, this “oracle of South America” applied technical magic to the various issues debated by theologians and enlightened intellectuals in Peru, who eclectically combined new ideas with old ones.97 Here, for the first time, Kircher’s work not only embellished orthodox wisdom but transformed received concepts that had not been seriously questioned in Peru for centuries. Peruvian censors never suspected the unorthodox potential inherent in Kircher.98 Yet in the hands and mind of Cosme Bueno, Kircher proved more revolutionary than Benito Feijoo y Montenegro or other Enlightenment scholars.99 Not Creole in the strict sense of the term, having come to Peru in 1730, Cosme Bueno was a medical doctor, astronomer, historian, physicist, geographer, and mathematician in Lima and Potosí.100 His written output was immense, and he was eternally curious. Bueno’s interest

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in machines was a European as well as a Peruvian Jesuit preoccupation. When writing about the physical properties of the air, he avidly read Schott, Kircher, Robert Boyle, Galileo Galilei, and Hermann Boerhaave.101 He created tables predicting the positions of heavenly bodies and composed quite an unusual geohistory.102 He made his students investigate the properties of water with European machines.103 And Bueno went into the archives to compile an exact chronology of all the viceroys of Peru, boasting with Creole pride.104 But his greatest expertise lay in the field of medicine, particularly in diagnosis and pharmacology.105 Contemporaries called him the oracle of Peru, and European scholars visited him even when he was lecturing as far away as Potosí. Bueno always strove to understand the laws of nature, analyzing how they dictated everything that he could see or investigate. In his Dis­ sertation on Physical Experiments About the Nature of the Air, Bueno wrote that Kircher, in his Oedipus Aegyptiacus, had reported on an Egyptian statue of Isis whose breasts exuded milk.106 Instead of citing the preternatural powers of the demon, Bueno claimed with Kircher that the physical laws of the air when exposed to heat pushed the liquid upward to flow from the breast. He even explicitly informed the reader that apparently miraculous or demonic effects were simply products of the laws of technical magic or, in modern terminology, mechanics and physics. In Bueno’s words, “It was considered diabolical activity until Padre Kircher showed the way to construct a similar [statue].”107 When viewed against the backdrop of the history of science in Europe, Bueno’s argument is a familiar one. But in the context of the Peruvian intellectual landscape, this critique of relying on demonic activities to explain events was novel, if not revolutionary. Bueno not only backed up his critique with the authority of Kircher, he also refused a role for demonology in other long-­standing Creole explanations. Bueno had an innate desire to disenchant. He was quite a dry witness—for instance, in his analysis of the construction of Sacsayhuaman: “Some would say Sacsayhuaman [with ashlars weighing up to 150 tons] was constructed by the demon.”108 It was the work not of a demon but of a sufficient number of human beings who moved the stones by implementing the laws of physics. In making this argument, Bueno flew in the face of scholars of the time and Pedro Cieza de León and Garcilaso de la Vega, who were still widely read in and out of Peru. Bueno’s interest in physics, combined with his antiquarian interest in setting the historical record straight, enabled him to take an unusually critical look at demonology. Employing his dearly beloved naturalism

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as an explanatory tool, he called into doubt the long-­standing Jesuit conviction that the Peruvian territories had been evangelized by Saint Thomas the Apostle. Throughout the seventeenth century, Jesuits had made that holy man responsible for all the good they found in the Americas. When commenting on the hierba de Paraguay, which Jesuits drank by the thousands of liters, Bueno argued that its beneficent properties could not be attributed to the holy apostle. He noted, “Some say that the apostle Santo Tomás had come to these provinces and [made] the herb salubrious and beneficent; allegedly, it had been poisonous beforehand; teaching the use [of the herb] to Indians, who, without doubt, used it before the conquest.”109 But according to Bueno, the healthfulness of the herb could be explained without the benign intervention of a supernatural entity. Even though Bueno himself did not comment on the customs of indigenous people, in this case he at least indirectly credited them with knowledge. In general, however, he did not apply his convictions to the ethnography of the indigenous world; instead, he concentrated on clearing away the jungle of scholastic demonological explanations in natural philosophy and mechanics. His critique reflects the constraints of a discourse dominant for two hundred years. Scholars still felt compelled to hide their criticism of orthodox wisdom behind the mantle of orthodoxy, for an open attack could still draw the attention of the Inquisition and lead to the fate of a radical Enlightenment thinker such as César Bandier. Bueno, with his critique of supernatural and demonic explanations, was miles away from the argumentation of either a Bandier or a Llano y Zapata. But the three were all tied in one way or another to the Jesuits. Although they used his works very differently, Bueno and Llano y Zapata had both read Kircher. In the eyes of Llano y Zapata, Kircher’s work was conventionally scholastic, a guide to understanding the hieroglyphically encrypted laws of God. For Bueno, Kircher was the forerunner of the antischolastic movement, offering a critique of demonology that was highly relevant to the welter of opinions about nature in the New World. The weight of Bueno’s reasoning, along with his outstanding reputation in and out of Peru, signaled the end of the demon-­ infused vision of the Andes. No longer was it possible to believe that Andean stones talked to indigenous people, or that hechizeros could use hairs, stones, herbs, or a stone in the form of a toad to harm or heal others. One of the first places where this change was felt was in Trujillo, where visitators and defensors of the Indians began to argue that such instruments could have no real effects. By the late eighteenth cen-

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tury, as growing numbers of scientists from Europe ventured into Lima, Quito, and the Andes on investigative journeys, preoccupations with demons became less and less relevant.110 These Europeans came with naturalist and antiquarian interests, and privileged the natural over the preter- or supernatural. They searched for archaeological remains, indifferent to demonic activities. Yet even though naturalism and antiquarianism alike helped distract attention from the customs of native South Americans, a respect for the knowledge of Indians was still long in coming.111 Indeed, even as the notion of Indians in thrall of demons began to appear ridiculous, ensuing generations of Spaniards and Creoles found other ways to denigrate the Andean people. Whereas seventeenth-­century Spaniards had complained about the defiance of the indigenous people, the lack of it was now a source of criticism. Antonio de Ulloa (1716–95), for example, belittled Indians for their indifference to European and Creole impositions: “For example, if one says the devil is evil, they [the Indians] answer that he has not done any harm to them, but say ‘you are right.’ If one talks likewise about saints, saying that they do good, [the Indians] answer in the same manner, ‘you are right.’ And if you tell them the opposite, they will agree with you again.”112 It took many more generations for the past to be valued enough for indigenous people to gain recognition of their knowledge and win a corresponding increase in social and political power. Over the course of the eighteenth century, the denizens of the Andean highlands also began to develop their own new discourses with regard to Creole and Spanish domination.113 Eloquent mestizo leaders envisioned a new Andean identity that no longer built on the Andean notion of the holy. Yet in the remote highland areas, in places where people and animals waited eagerly for the sun to rise and warm their cold limbs, people still listened to what their religious specialists had to say.

Chapter Nine

Epilogue

When the members of the Society of Jesus ventured into the Andes, they meticulously observed indigenous rituals. Indiscriminately, they labeled indigenous religious specialists as hechizeros and their ritual performances as proofs of idolatry, superstitions, and, in brief, hechi­ zería, or sorcery and magic. But for the potential confusion caused by the term magic, “European Religion and the Rise of Magic” would probably be the best title for this concluding chapter.1 Indeed, the Catholic introduction of the notion of magic into the world of the Andes imported more than terminology. It was accompanied by the conceptual distinction between preternatural, natural, and supernatural spheres— a belief radically foreign to the Andean worldview that had informed the rituals and actions of religious specialists prior to the conquest, and would continue to shape them during Spanish domination. In the wake of the importation of this distinction, and of the cultural influx of Spaniards and Afro-­Peruvians, there came to the shores of the Pacific beliefs in evil sorcery, in demonic actions, and in powers that were based on analogical sympathies and not necessarily on the natural play of cause and effect or on notions of symbol and evil autochthonous to the Andes. Those beliefs and related practices created new behaviors, and they prescribed—in combination with other factors in the complex dialectical process of cross-­cultural interaction—a more limited role in society for the religious specialists. By the seventeenth century, many members of Andean society had adopted European and Afro-­Peruvian beliefs, and the symbols and practices that accompanied them—but others had not. Among these recusants were the religious specialists from the high Andes.

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The nature of the dialogue: A complex dialectical process The world of the colonial Andes spoke in many tongues beyond Quechua, Aymara, and Castellano, and all translations were approximations. To these and other literal languages the historian must add the language of actions. Analysis of actions is necessary for two reasons. First, because Spaniards and Creoles seldom recorded the words and beliefs of religious specialists, we gain better insight into their conceptions by examining what they did. Even though the sources’ reports on these actions are only superficial, we can glean from them substantial information about the place of objects in Andean religion. Second, a focus on the language of actions enables us to see Catholicism as it must have appeared to the inhabitants of the Andean world—in and through actions. Moreover, the changing actions of the Catholic clergy also reveal to the historian how theology transformed itself under the pressure of “contact zones.” The Jesuit Arriaga trusted more in actions than in sermons. In the chapters above, it proved simpler to analyze the resulting gaps between theory and practice in the Catholic than in the Andean world. Apparently, these gaps were wider in European and Creole culture. I argued that this distinction ultimately evolved from the distinction, or nondistinction, of supernatural and natural spheres; in other words, from the distinction or nondistinction of transcendental and immanent spheres. The dialectical process that I have called the Andean-­Christian dialogue, between religious specialists and Jesuits or Spanish and Creole Catholics, in fact had three active parties. To the European Christians and the many religious specialists in the Andes (primarily in the high Andes) should be added the common Andean people, who indirectly influenced both. I concentrated among the European Christians on the Jesuits for several reasons. In the beginning, Jesuits were the ones who felt most threatened by indigenous religious specialists, especially in their role as confessors, ychuris (or similar figures in coastal areas). Jesuits perceived ychuris as their equivalents and thus rivals to their authority. From the late sixteenth to the late seventeenth centuries, Jesuits had ambivalent feelings toward religious specialists as fears mixed with a belief in their own superiority. The Augustinians shared with the Society of Jesus deep worries about hechizeros but did not document their concerns as thoroughly as the Jesuits did. Other orders, in contrast, seem to have had a more relaxed attitude toward hechizeros

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(investigating their motivations, in both Europe and Peru, remains a task for future researchers). A focus on the Jesuits was unavoidable because they rose to become the principal power in Lima’s Creole church during the second half of the sixteenth century. As we have seen, Jesuits outwitted their political rivals, especially the Dominicans, by establishing powerful relations with several viceroys and archbishops in Lima, whose entourages they staffed until the mid-­seventeenth century. In other dioceses the order proved less powerful but nonetheless had a keen eye on hechizeros. Perhaps to the relief of religious specialists all over viceregal Peru, Jesuits managed to remove the dogmatizers among the hechizeros from the punishment of civil tribunals. Viceroy Toledo had prescribed the killing of these dogmatizers, whom he saw as the heirs of the Incas, but it was Acosta’s and the Third Lima Council’s achievement to assign primary responsibility for hechizería to the Creole church without handing hechizeros over to civil authorities for capital punishment. For various reasons, the Society of Jesus was also responsible for the increasing demonization of hechizeros’ actions—and sometimes even the hechizeros themselves. As chapter 4 showed, one book by a European Jesuit, among other reasons, motivated Francisco de Ávila and his followers to organize the first systematic campaign of visitations aimed at extirpating idolatry. Almost all writers that took an interest in Andean religious specialists for whatever reason used books from the European and especially Spanish legal, theological, and natural philosophical discourse about hechizería; most often like a quarry, in an attempt to understand what they saw and what they had heard about in individual cases and to shape their attitude towards it. Thus, my arguments about the dialectical process depended on an analysis of readings as well as of colonial libraries’ holdings (the latter, arguably, a first for scholarship devoted to colonial Peru). And of course, a final reason for focusing on the Jesuits is that their sources are extremely rich. The Society heavily documented its missionary activities in Cuzco, Julí, Arequipa, Lima, Huamanga, Tucumán, Quito, among the Mojos, in Santiago de Chile, and among many other people and places. We owe this wealth of information to the Jesuits’ obsession with indigenous religious practices (at its height until the second half of the seventeenth century), which transformed them, despite their salient objectives and blind spots, into early modern New World “ethnographers.” Uncovering hechizería, false cults, false beliefs, and false actions required investigations whose thoroughness resembled only

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faintly that in modern ethnographers’ case studies. But were it not for the particular Jesuit interest in confessions, in systematic visitations, and in what they considered demonic and natural magic, we would know much less about religious change and the resistance to it in the Andean world. The Jesuits’ counterparts on the Andean side were the religious specialists: the men and women who maintained Andean rituals tied to huacas. Those rituals were intended to heal and promote fertility. They also provided divination. Fertility and sickness were both tied to the benign will of huacas or mallquis. It was the task of the religious specialists to deal with huacas on behalf of an individual client, an ayllu, or a village. After the Taki Onkoy movement of the late sixteenth century, religious specialists no longer could rouse collective pan-­Andean resistance. Instead, they limited themselves to individual action, and the scope of their activities varied considerably. Their respective rituals differed in content and were often tied to a local huaca. Yet despite variations in performance and in the arrangements of the objects involved in offerings, the rituals were fundamentally alike. What united religious specialists—when they did not denounce each other under the pressure of the Catholic Church—lay hidden in the logic of high Andean culture and especially in the symbolic language of the objects used. As I have shown, the religious specialists’ force for resistance grew out of the symbolic language of rituals, of objects, and indirectly out of their belief in huacas. During the colonial era, owing to evangelization, persecution campaigns, and the influx of new beliefs and practices, the religious specialists’ role in society was transformed. Though initially they were primarily addressed as priests, confessors, and healers, it seems that by the seventeenth century they were increasingly sought out solely as curanderos, or healers. Since sickness and religion were still conceptually connected, however, religious specialists often continued to see themselves as the Universalgelehrten whom it behooved to motivate huacas to favorably guard the past, present, and the future of their ayllus and, more often now, of individuals. At all times religious specialists withstood European attempts at classifying them into the neat categories established by the European discourse on magic. The dialectical movement involved in the Peruvian dialogue between religious specialists and Catholic elites needs to be put into a diachronic frame, one complex enough to show how concerted (re)actions as well as discursive, political, and social factors all shaped its rhythms.

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The history reconstructed here is basically a sad one. It chronicles the affliction of probably several thousand people who suffered for beliefs that differed from those of the men who held political power. When religious specialists first reacted to the conquest and the influx of Catholicism with rebellion and a vision of separate Andean and Catholic spheres, Peruvian civil authorities threatened the dogmatizers among them with capital punishment (in the 1570s). As Jesuits rose to positions of authority in Peru, they instead prescribed confession and reeducation (until about 1609). Religious specialists countered this move by emphasizing the similarities between the two religions to argue that they must be kept separate, a division they sustained in indigenous practices. In Lima, this was answered by severe persecutions by church and political authorities (from 1610 onward), fueled (in the 1620s, and then particularly from the late 1640s to the 1690s) by the influx of a new European demonology. The persecutions that took place in southern and northern Peru—for example, in Quito—were much less systematic and harsh than in Lima. However, on the local level they were an everyday threat, especially in the Jesuit missions. These persecutions, as well as the evolving assimilation of Andean people to Catholicism, made religious specialists hide their rituals from Catholic eyes. It was at about this time that Jesuits tried to gain knowledge about nature from the disempowered religious specialists. Indirectly, Jesuits began to adopt one of the religious specialist’s many functions in Andean society by styling themselves as the Andean healers par excellence. At all times Jesuits and Augustinians told, depicted, and enacted stories about God’s miraculous powers and the powers of Catholic symbols. They instilled the fear of torture in hell. Even when religious specialists began to share these fears, or assimilated Santiago to Illapa, the new entities retained the quality of huacas, both in their powers and in the fears associated with them. In some regions, the influx of new beliefs brought about an expansion of religious specialists’ expertise and function in society. Especially along the coast, but also in highland areas, they became masters of restoring health by warding off evil sorcery. To oversimplify a bit, at the beginning of the dialogue between religious specialists and Europeans, the two sides had confronted each other as rival confessors. In the end, the opponents—and they were still opponents—both became curanderos, healers.

Figure 1.1 Panel from El Infierno (1684), by José López de los Ríos. Church of Carabuco, Bolivia.

Figure 1.2 Adoration of the Magi, by Diego de la Puente (1586–1663). Church of La Asunción, Julí, Peru.

Figure 3.1 Granite puma deprived of its snout. Museo Regional Arqueológico

de Tiwanaku (300–1100 C.E.), Bolivia.

Figure 3.3 Paracas iconography on a textile depicting a flying being. Paracas

(700–200 B.C.E.), Museo Nacional de Arqueología Antropología e Historia del Perú, Lima, Peru.

Figure 3.4 Inca stone huaca, Sayhuite, Apurímac, Peru.

Figure 5.1 Relics in the sacristy of the church La Compañía, Lima, Peru.

Figure 5.2 Baptism scene with a spondylus shell taken from the baptistry in the church of Carabuco (ca. late seventeenth century). Carabuco, Bolivia.

Figure 5.3 Santiago “Mataindios” (ca. first half of eighteenth century). Church of

Pucyura, Cuzco.

Figure 5.4 Depiction of Saint Francis with wings, in the church of Ayaviri (ca. late seventeenth century). Ayaviri, Peru.

Figure 5.5 Conopas (llama stone representations), bezoar stones, and spondylus shell used in rituals in the Cuzco area. Private collection.

Figure 7.1 Saint Peter, by an anonymous painter, in the Jesuit church of

Andahuaylillas (eighteenth century). Saint Peter kneels in front of a cloth from which fall several toads, along with snakes and insects. Andahuaylillas, Peru.

Figure 7.3 Mural by an anonymous painter in the cloister cell of Fray Francisco de

Salamanca (ca. eighteenth century). Monastery of La Merced, Cuzco, Peru.

Figure 7.4 Juicio Final (1802), by Tadeo Escalante, Church of Huaro, Cuzco, Peru.

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A persistent divide; or, Concerning the incompatibility of two worldviews The analyses in this volume of the Andean-­Christian dialogue concerning knowledge and belief were careful exercises in deciphering transcultural processes. The aim was to see why Andean or European reactions to one another may have made sense, given the parameters of their respective cultures, while at the same time capturing the illogic of human behavior. Therefore, the investigation combed through a highly complex web of interactions and discourses between religious specialists and Spanish and Creole scholars and missionaries in the lands that some on the continent want to call “Abya Yala”—a proper indigenous name for the Americas. Close scrutiny of these interactions made it possible to distill essential differences in concepts of embodiment versus representation, of sickness, of nature, in notions of memoria and the coexistence of cultures, in the workings of symbols, and in fears. The dialogue about hechizería was in essence a dialogue about the holy. It was the Andean notion of the holy and the corresponding European Christian-­Platonic worldview that lay at the heart of the obvious failure of understanding between religious specialists and Christians. In colonial times, the logic of Christianity and the logic of the Andean cultures collided, and their basic incompatibility generated much human suffering. I reconstructed this Andean logic by carefully reconnecting colonial religious specialists’ symbols and actions with convictions, symbols, and practices from precolonial Andean cultures. This logic, kept alive by colonial-­era religious specialists, is as valid as any in premodern Christian culture, despite its specific inner contradictions. Of course, these cultures took different approaches to storing their respective logics. In early modern Europe, books and universities preserved a certain type of reasoning. In the Andes, religious specialists, through their rituals, guarded a knowledge that conquest and colonialism could not destroy. The Andean side will be recapitulated here more explicitly than the parameters on the European side, as they are more familiar. In the world of Andean religious specialists, the notion of the holy was tied to the concept of the huaca, an object or an entity: a figure, a stone, coca leaves, a mountain, a lake, the ocean, or any object that was held to incorporate powers. A huaca was connected with the forces of nature (defined by active commemoration). In the mountainous regions of the high Andes, from the Chavín culture (if not earlier) to colonial

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times, stones were at the highest levels of power. What was seemingly dead had the ability to generate or destroy life. Religious specialists preserved these beliefs during the colonial period. Totally absent from the Andean concept of nature and the holy, both prior to the Spanish arrival and after the conquest, was any belief in what Europeans labeled “miracles”: interruptions of the normal course of nature or, more precisely for an Andean worldview, disruptions of the realm of powers in nature according to their understanding of the workings of nature. Andeans granted to nature powers, forces, or virtues far greater than did contemporary European Christians. In the Andes, nature was the ultimate limit of the holy. A symbol—and here, again, care constantly must be taken to prevent the use of European terminology from distorting the specificities of other cultures—was not the same in the Andes as in European tradition. An Andean symbol both represented and embodied its virtues at the same time. For example, fat was a prominent Andean symbol, at once representing and containing life force. The Catholic belief in the existence of effects caused by entities apart from the powers stored in an object—or, as European-­trained scholars would have phrased it, via occult virtues that came from a preternatural entity, the demon—was foreign to the Andean world. Andeans believed in the existence of hidden virtues of objects (hidden only in the sense that they needed to be spelled out and inscribed through active commemoration), but those virtues inhered in the object itself and were not generated by a preternatural entity.2 It was the task of those religious specialists that Andeans held to be particularly potent—for example, the early colonial camasca (or, as he or she later came to be called in the southern Andes, the altomisayuq)—to recognize and manage these virtues, maintain the commemoration of them, and allocate them with the aid of other huacas to his or her neighbors. As a manager of virtues in nature, the religious specialist used these forces with the help of huacas in whatever way was needed to ensure the life of individuals and the survival of his or her ayllu. At the outset of colonial times, it was not the task of the religious specialist to destroy life. According to Europeans, however, all this was indiscriminately hechizería. In their actions, the religious specialists allegedly relied on demons. This idea introduced a new vision of a religious specialist’s possibly evil powers. The many religious specialists met within these pages—and the scope of this book did not permit many others to be introduced—­ envisioned the separation of the two cultures, and that vision dictated their rituals. Through their faith in the force of memoria as a life-­giving

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institution, religious specialists continued their trust in the efficacy of huacas, preserved Andean rituals, and maintained distrust in Catholic objects. Religious specialists feared the Catholic object far more than a supernatural Catholic entity. Although some adopted the notion that God was the healer par excellence, they too distrusted the powers of Catholic objects. Even at the moment of compromise, their actions were directed by their Andean notion of embodiment of powers. Together with this understanding—which in some regions has lasted to this day—and in part because of it, the Andean notion of sickness as caused by a huaca’s dissatisfaction also survived. For quite a while the Andean notions of embodiment of specific powers and of nature prevented the inclusion of harmful sympathetic magic in rituals. This sort of magic supposedly worked via demons and belief in the power of analogies alone. The chapters above provided an explanation and a chronology for the spread of beliefs in sympathetic magic and the accompanying notion of maleficio—the idea, common in Spanish and Afro-­Caribbean societies, that such magic could cause harm. That is, when an hechizero pinched or mutilated an object declared to be a representation of someone, he or she believed that the real person was afflicted. In the hands of Spanish and Afro-­Peruvian ritual specialists, the toad and the little figures called muñecas in Spanish were popular vehicles for sympathetic magic. In Peru, in those areas where black and mulatto slaves lived and interacted with indigenous religious specialists—especially along the coast and in the north, but in due course also in Lima’s hinterland—the notion that it was possible to do harm via toads or muñecas entered the Andean mentality. Until that time, the Andean symbol of the toad had stood for protection and water (as in some places it still does). Very likely, toads were also used to produce hallucinogens. But the new cultural influxes caused the toad and figurines to be redefined as instruments for evil. Several Spanish authors mirrored and at the same time fueled this cross-­cultural process, including Martín de Murúa, who (using a source as yet unidentified) conceptually fused Andean with Spanish and, perhaps, Peruvian or Afro-­Caribbean traditions. Likewise, Cristóbal de Albornoz, José de Arriaga, and Peña de Montenegro introduced sympathetic magic into the Creole discourse about Andean hechizería. Their perceptions of the rituals of Andean religious specialists were also shaped by a belief in a European-­type demonic magic. Felipe Guaman Poma de Ayala partly mirrored this trend. Thus, in importing notions of sympathetic magic and practices thereof, elite and popular culture pushed in the same di-

262  The power of huacas

rection. Some religious specialists began to adopt these beliefs and expanded their expertise accordingly, especially along the coast and, with less consistency, in Lima’s hinterland. For many other religious specialists in the high Andes throughout the seventeenth century, to produce a given effect still required a powerful natural object that linked the Andean symbol and its intended effect. Evil was produced not by sympathetic magic but instead by noxious herbs, either directly infused or applied to an Andean symbol (because it had inherent generative powers). Conversely, the main antidotes to states of affliction were two natural herbs that had the status of huacas and were tied to Inca glory. In some rituals, identification with the Incas could be demonstrated. In those areas, religious specialists preserved their rituals and underlying beliefs in Andean symbolism, much like those who to this day maintain their practice of cultivating with the chaquitaqlla, the foot plow used in the high Andes to plant potatoes. At no point during colonial times, however, was the “republic” of religious specialists in a vacuum that sealed its inhabitants off against changes. First of all, religious specialists faced many forces over which they had no control, including denunciations, new kinds of sicknesses, new beliefs among the common people, new competitors, and, to some extent, a shift in roles. After failed attempts first to negotiate with the Catholics and then to create two separate societies, the religious specialists saw their own people take the road to assimilation. Some religious specialists voluntarily adopted a change, taking Santiago as the namesake of Illapa. Others appealed to God as healer. But despite these individual modifications, it was not until the twentieth century that religious specialists in the southern Andes introduced Catholic objects into their rituals. These objects challenged the Andean holy more seriously than did invocations. The Andean distinction between objects and invocations also explains why the transcultural exchange between the Afro-­Peruvian and Spanish or Creole hechizeros and the religious specialists was rather one-­sided, with Spanish, Creole, and Afro-­Peruvian hechizeros far more apt to adopt ritualistic practices from indigenous people than vice versa, and why, to this day, the cultures of the high Andes are so utterly non-­European. Unsurprisingly, perhaps, religious specialists were most responsible for preserving the logic of the Andean holy and its notion of embodiment of specific powers; common Andean people more quickly deviated from its principles. More vulnerable to cultural exchange, they adopted and spread Catholic suspicions, and embraced the Catholic and nonindigenous hechizeros’ redefinitions of

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hechizería as maleficio. In its first phase, however, even these popular assimilations obeyed the Andean logic of the holy. As for the other side of this dialogue, to understand the intellectual breeding grounds for its reception in the Andes, I drew on investigations into European concepts of transformation, witchcraft, demonology, idolatry, and magic. It needs to be underscored that throughout much of the seventeenth century, Jesuits and Augustinians alike believed that Indians in the New World had, in fact, been evangelized by an apostle but had forgotten that Christian heritage after centuries of domination by demons. Catholic sacred history thus cast religious specialists as demon worshippers from the first moment of contact. The arrival of early modern Jesuit demonology only intensified a preexisting worry about satanic omnipresence. Priests and missionaries thought they needed to liberate Andeans from the grip of the demons. This salvific intention stimulated the truly astonishing energies that inspired many missionaries to dare the laborious journey into the Andes. What must it have been like to sail for months to an unfamiliar place that one already “knew” was inhabited by people who sucked one’s blood and killed through treacherous magic? Many of us would have refused to leave the harbor. Some, of course, in fact proved unsuited to the hardship of the missions. Their life was as difficult as that of religious specialists, though in different ways. Catholic priests and missionaries were tormented by fears, which they tried to tame as best they could. Apart from their dread of demonic powers, they were afraid of the prospect of ending up in hell, of sicknesses, of the high altitudes, of the “barbarous Indians,” and of the possibility of villainous attacks by Andean religious specialists. Among the Andeans, the canon of terrors was no less vigorous. All feared Spanish and Creole power, sicknesses, poverty, and poor harvests, and the common people during the late seventeenth century dreaded malevolent sorcery. Over the course of the late sixteenth and seventeenth centuries, a Platonic distinction between supernatural and natural spheres, an Aristotelian concept of nature in its scholastic mold, and the trauma of the Reformation all came together to drive European and Creole persecutions of hechizeros. As Catholics strove for predominance, and the religious specialists defended their vision of separation, the severity of persecutions varied, depending on who was wielding political power. At the end of the seventeenth century, Catholic sensibilities, political structures, and intellectual parameters changed. By then, the society of the Andes had already undergone a marked transformation. The seeds

264  The power of huacas

sown directly and indirectly by Catholics were starting to blossom. New kinds of social tensions, beliefs in maleficio and evil sorcery, and beliefs in sympathetic magic as a method of attacking rivals had widespread effects. The end to the prominence of the discourse about hechizería in colonial times—which was not identical with the end of belief in hechizería, or the end of the discourse about it in Peru— was brought about by a new kind of naturalism that began to spread through Jesuit and Jesuit-­inspired scholarly circles, including those who worked in missions or taught Jesuits who ventured into the missions. This creeping shift of emphasis from an interest in hechizería to an interest in the natural world did not totally eliminate the possibility of persecution. From the 1730s to 1780s, a time of political crisis for the Creole elite, fears of hechizería reemerged. In Trujillo, local priests and appointed judges of idolatries worked jointly on the investigation of cases of hechizería in the diocese. Likewise, governors, local bishops, and their priests in Arequipa, Cajamarca, and Cuzco, and the Audiencia of Quito, once again saw hechizería as endemic, but the agents behind this local flare-­up of a discourse already obsolete in other areas were no longer the Jesuits. Instead, it was local governors and local priests who initiated accusations of hechizería, along with local priests who, despite the absence of any such orders from the Catholic or Spanish centers of power, made artists paint demons on their church walls. In Europe by the mid-­eighteenth century, scholars in Paris and elsewhere were trying to liberate themselves from the shackles of Catholicism and its dominance in science, society, and politics. They locked up their demons behind the bars of a new kind of European rationalism.3 The corresponding developments in Peruvian discourses, especially in the provinces, unfolded on a different schedule.

Points of discussion The reconstruction in this book of the Andean-­Christian dialogue in its full complexity will, I hope, help to shed new light on various discussions. Perhaps it can also intervene in some long-­standing debates among Andean historians. First, to begin with, it has long been debated whether colonial indigenous culture in its entirety was mestizaje, or hybrid, or instead obeyed in its entirety an old Andean tradition. I believe that I have demonstrated that different sections of Andean colonial society moved at different paces, and with different levels of intensity, on the road to assimi-

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lation. My explorations into the parameters of colonial Andean notions of embodiment of specific powers, of nature, of notions of cultural coexistence, of commemoration of huacas, and of sickness—as they were, and as they came to be inscribed into colonial Andean rituals—suggest to historians of Andean religion and culture a new vision of how to define and understand change, and where to locate change as well as resistance to change within Andean rituals and the world of Andean religious specialists.4 These parameters offer insights into why and how the world of Andean religious specialists changed, and where and why it did not change. Changes in the function of Andean religious specialists, in symbols and in individual instruments, can almost be considered superficial when measured against the changes that occurred within some of these parameters themselves, as only the parameters entailed the powers to dictate assimilations or resistances. During the colonial period, it was not the logic of these individual parameters that changed, but the reach of them. The notion of sickness and the notion of coexistence of cultures that during Inca times and in the times of the Taki Onkoy were held up as principles to organize an entire society were now limited to organizing a small community of Andeans or even only the standing of an individual. Sickness was still considered a social phenomenon and depended on the memory work associated with huacas. Coexistence as juxtaposition was henceforth managed from the colonial mesa and through the authority and performance of religious specialists. (Perhaps it even originated there, but that escapes our knowledge.) Andean religious specialists continued to believe in the necessity of commemorating huacas, which they considered necessary to the well-­being of local Andean communities. Even when huacas got destroyed, Andean religious specialists stored the commemorated powers in their bags and communicated with them on that level. Thus, sickness, coexistence of cultures, and, to a lesser degree (as open veneration of huacas continued to exist as well), the commemoration of the power of huacas lost something of their reach to organize a larger community; however, they survived intact in small communities and among individuals. Beyond these almost logical changes, which did not affect the logic of the parameters themselves, the notion of embodied powers in nature maintained its logic from the sixteenth to the eighteenth century, and often beyond, unaltered. Andean religious specialists, through their trust in the powers of embodied virtues in small objects, which they carried in their bags, preserved it. This notion of embodiment of specific powers exhibited its influence in the distrust

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of Andean religious specialists in Catholic objects, as well as in the ongoing practice of harm being inflicted by Andean natural means. Catholic beliefs in the supernatural and preternatural, and in sympathetic magic, challenged this Andean cultural logic most radically, but most often did not destroy it. These explorations into where to locate change, why these changes occurred, and how they occurred have a difficult chronology indeed, as the historians for the later seventeenth-­century encounters can grasp only snapshots of individual Andean religious specialists. In one case, however, a chronology could be provided, in the case of the introduction of sympathetic magic. The logic of Andean notions makes it possible to distinguish superficial from profound changes in Andean religion. Among the latter may be counted changes that pertain to certain symbolic carriers that served as instruments in colonial Andean ritual, as they were either introduced newly to a mesa or were charged with a new meaning (for example, pierced objects, white objects), changes that occurred in the invocations as part of a ritual (for example, invocation of gods or saints), changes in the function of Andean religious specialists in a changing Andean society (such as from the confessor to the more salient role as healer, to a specialist in curing or promoting alleged instances of harm), and ultimately, changes that can be observed along the urban-­rural and coastal-­highland divide. In the cities as well as on the coast, where exposure to Spanish influence was longer and more intense and the influx of African beliefs and practices was greater, Catholic symbols and Spanish and African notions of maleficio entered religious specialists’ rituals and redefined their expertise more quickly than they did in the highlands. It was only a corollary to the explorations into the changes within the world of Andean religious specialists to discuss, in comparison, the world of Andean commoners. Commoners assimilated to Catholicism, to saint worship, to confraternities, and to Catholic festivities more quickly and more extensively than did religious specialists. Apparently, as needs to be asked in any investigation into assimilations, even these assimilations often had little impact on changing the organizational principles of the Andean worldview of commoners and the underlying understanding of how the world worked. A large number of the common Andean people still maintained their worldview as much as they had under Inca rule. Does a worldview—even with a veneer of assimilation—change when, even though everyday life has changed

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in many ways, concerns about food, family, and health continue to be dominant? During much of the seventeenth century, Andean people still focused their hopes on health and fertility. Thus, even after they had come to live under a new elite with its many sociopolitical and economic implications, and even after they had “assimilated” to Catholicism, these ordinary men and women did not embrace the pure Catholicism that Creole scholars had long envisioned for the Andes. Second, methodologically, it has been shown that objects allow for the reconstruction of a history “on the ground” of the Andean people during the seventeenth and eighteenth centuries, and ideally—and much in demand—beyond. The due respect given to colonial Andean objects and practices, and to precolonial symbols and objects, combined with a close reading of what colonial Spanish informants knew, what they thought, and what they understood allows us to reconstruct a history of colonial Andean meanings from an Andean perspective and even allows us to follow them up through different stages in the history of transcultural encounters during colonial times—without giving in to the temptation to leap directly to twentieth-­century ethnographic evidence. Third, explorations into the parameters of the European and Andean encounter, in which European and, even more so, Andean parameters of notions of sickness versus health, embodiment versus representation, supernatural versus natural, as well as notions of commemoration and cultural coexistence, were scrutinized, have shown that the encounter between Spaniards and Indians was one of mutual dynamic transculturation. Surprisingly, in most standard accounts of cultural encounters in the Andes, it seems that the parameters changed more radically on the side of Europeans than on that of Andeans. To a certain degree Europeans adapted to Andean customs as well as to Andean assimilations, despite their rhetoric built up against it. The European discourse engaged in a constant dialogue with the Andean world, as well as with others in a transatlantic setting. It was influenced by new tides of thought from Europe and elsewhere in the Americas—for the better or worse of the Andeans. Frustration over the failing campaign to extirpate idolatries and, in many instances, the (often forced) tolerance of Andean assimilations, as well as new books and trends of thought, all provoked the European and Creole discourse to shift its attitudes towards Andean religion from the sixteenth to the late eighteenth century quite radically. European concerns shifted, to oversimplify a bit,

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from a concern with religion to a concern with nature; and in the language of the early modern European discourse on magic, from demonic to natural and then technical magic.

A new view of the discourse on magic in the transatl antic world The Christian-­Andean dialogue was truly a clash of cultures. It was shaped by a mutual incomprehension that went beyond linguistic misunderstandings—a judgment we can make from the privileged position of the historian. The historian can see what contemporaries could not, limited as they were by their own worldviews. Yet in the discourses analyzed above, we saw that Andeans’ and Catholics’ concepts were in certain respects not so different from one another. No contemporary Catholic or religious specialist would have admitted to these similarities, except for those who were persecuted by the Inquisition. In the late seventeenth century, César Bandier, a medical doctor and the teacher of Viceroy Conde de Santisteban’s son, hailed the indigenous belief in nature as the key to righting the wrongs of European society. The Inquisition banned him from the country. Nonindigenous Spanish, Creole, and mulatto ritual specialists likewise trusted in the power of Andean knowledge and old Inca customs and borrowed from religious specialists’ rituals. Yet even those men and women whom the Inquisition in Lima never suspected, and who were de facto good orthodox Catholics, had a faith in powerful objects that resembled the faith of Andean religious specialists, though they put their trust in quite different entities. In the Catholic realm, this entity was God. In the Andes, the focus of trust was nature, the Sun and Moon, the apus and other huacas, and Thunder (or Illapa) in the guise of Santiago. Moreover, both cultures trusted in an authoritative social elite, be it the Catholic priest and missionary or religious specialists. Both elite groups saw themselves—­ despite individual variations—as keepers of an orthodoxy: that of the Tridentine Council on the one hand, and that of Andean logic on the other. One important question remains to be addressed: How does a fuller view of the two-­hundred-­year-­long interaction between Andeans and Christians affect our larger picture of the early modern transatlantic world and the nature of transcultural exchanges beyond what was already said above? So far, it seems, historiography has underestimated the ramifications of the early modern European discourse on magic,

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which was in essence a discourse about the orthodoxy of knowledge and belief. Unless we properly grasp the paradoxical nature of this discourse and its effect on the cultures on both sides of the Atlantic, our understanding of this world must remain incomplete. The early modern European discourse on magic was a creature with three main faces, with early modern Catholic scholars distinguishing between demonic, natural, and technical magic. Indeed, when transferred to the colonial world, the European discourse on magic simultaneously had a conservative and a modernizing potential. As shown above, the long-­ standing assumption that the transfer of knowledge between Europeans and Indians did not challenge basic European assumptions requires corrections similar to those that scholars in the history of botany have already begun to provide. It is true that Europeans looked on Indians as if they were children who could not even count to five. At the same time, however, Jesuits in Peru—like the Franciscans in Mexico, the Consejo de Indias, and King Philip II—tried to gain access to their information about the properties of plants. Once this wisdom arrived in Europe, it expanded European understanding, albeit without challenging basic philosophical assumptions. Yet some scholars, in an admittedly marginal discourse in Europe, were passionately devoted to investigating occult virtues in nature and had their intellectual parameters shifted by the experience of indigenous people. As information from the New World flooded into Europe, they started to see the world of occult nature and, more important for our context, the world of knowledge about nature as a totality. The Jesuit Hernando Castrillo believed in an archaic survival of primordial wisdom both in the New World and in Europe, even though he alleged that Old World magicians had a head start over New World ones. But in the act of making that comparison, he put the knowledge of non-­European and European wise men and women on the same plane. Only a comparative analysis of the European discourse on magic in Peru and in early modern Europe can reveal the dynamics and effects of the exchange of knowledge across the Atlantic.5 In Peru, until the mid-­seventeenth century, the European discourse was focused on the holy, in essence concerned with alleged disbelief in God’s existence. In Europe, by contrast, the contemporary discourse on magic, when not tied to confessional polemics, dealt in principle with the legitimacy of human interference in nature. Participants discussed the legitimacy of human challenges to God’s omnipotence. Thus, in the colonial era in Spanish South America and likewise in colonial Mexico, the interest in

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demonic magic long prevailed. Were one to take the European master narrative of the road to modernity as normative, South America might be condemned as backward because suspicions about demonic magic continued to flare up among some intellectuals until the late eighteenth and early nineteenth centuries. In fact, even this aspect of the multifaceted European discourse on magic itself bore modernizing potential, insofar as it forced early modern Catholics to become “ethnographers.” More important, the two other major aspects of the early modern discourse on magic—concerns with natural magic and technical magic— caused radical shifts in the intellectual parameters of Creole society, as they indirectly undermined the attempts of the Creole church to control the thinking of its university professors. As knowledge and objects (for example, the bezoar stone) were imported from the New to the Old World, the discourse’s naturalistic face—thus far only latent in Peruvian Creole discourse—rebounded back from Europe to South America. In Peru, the Jesuit Bernabé Cobo was the epitome of the early modern naturalist. His outlook on nature was Aristotelian, though his efforts to collect information about indigenous knowledge of Andean plants and animals followed a Baconian program. Significantly, he inserted in his book a chapter on hechizería as if it were already a thing of the past. There, he criticized Catholic perceptions of hechizeros. Cobo’s naturalism indirectly helped other Creole scholars overcome the dictate of Creole Catholic preoccupations. It was a first step toward a late eighteenth-­century antiquarianism that also extended to indigenous customs. Most important, however, the third face of the early modern European discourse on magic, technical magic, allowed Creole scholars to covertly introduce Enlightenment ideas into the Andes. The Peruvian scholar Cosme Bueno used Jesuit Athanasius Kircher’s principles of technical magic to mount a critique of evil-­working statues—and, indirectly, of miracle-­working saints—in eighteenth-­century Peru. According to Bueno, demons did not operate through statues; it was the technicians’ expertise that did so. Thus the European discourse on technical magic, under the veil of orthodoxy, prepared the final blow against the belief in preternatural and, indirectly, in supernatural operations, and against the scholasticism that was compulsory in Peruvian institutions of higher learning. We might claim, in sum, that it was the discourse on magic that weakened Catholicism’s grip on society. Ironically, as they introduced the multifaceted European discourse on magic into the Andes, Europeans also brought its potential to weaken their own Catholicism. At

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the same time, nothing in the discourse of magic in the transatlantic world prevented southern Andean religious specialists from continuing to follow their own principles. Their persistence explains why, to this day, the high Andes is one of the few places on Earth where a culture has not yet been totally overwhelmed by the process of assimilating either to colonialism or to present-­day globalization. Today, however, new churches are trying again to evangelize the Andes, and they appear to pose a new, grave challenge to the Andean world.6 This threat—from the viewpoint of a cultural historian—seems greater than that of four hundred years of Catholic dominance. The new churches neither trust in powerful objects nor promote a symbolic language that would allow indigenous beliefs to survive. It remains the task of the historians to come to judge how the Andean culture activated its force to withstand or adapt.

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Notes

Introduction 1. See the chronicles by Felipe Guaman Poma de Ayala, Cristóbal de Molina, Polo de Ondegardo, and the anonymous sixteenth-­century author of De las costumbres antiguas de los naturales del Pirú (often attributed to Blas Valera); the Huarochirí Manuscript; Arriaga, Exterpación; and the dictionaries by Diego de Torres Rubio, Ludovico Bertonio, and Diego González Holguín. On the term religious specialist see Gareis, Religiöse Spezialisten, and, also leaning toward the term ritual specialists, Mills, “Especialistas en rituales,” 148–84. 2. See Polo de Ondegardo, “Errores,” 21, 31; Bertonio, Vocabulario, s.v. “adivinar”; and Arriaga, Extirpación, 34. 3. Bertonio, Vocabulario. 4. Spaniards also applied the term hechizería to Spanish, Creole, mulatto, and mestizo practices that, according to ecclesiastical and civil authorities, either involved the devil or did violence to the normal course of nature. To distinguish Andean religious specialists from Afro-­Peruvian, Creole, and Spanish ones, I call the latter “ritual specialists.” 5. Aquinas, Summa Theologiae, II-­II, q. 92–96. Throughout the colonial period, most scholars in Peru followed Thomas Aquinas’s theology and natural philosophy. 6. I use dialogue as an umbrella term, conceding that it is provisional and acknowledging that this dialogue occurred under conditions of unequal power. The term is intended to capture the dialectical dimensions of the encounters between missionaries and their Andean counterparts. The dialogue often took place indirectly, as the two cultures but not their official representatives were informing each other. There are indications that Andean religious specialists and Jesuit missionaries did sometimes explicitly discuss the particulars of their beliefs. On the “dialogical” dimensions of colonial encounters with respect to religion, see Griffiths, Sacred Dia­ logues, which analyzes through a wide-­angle lens encounters between missionaries and “shamans” in North, Meso-­, and South America; and in more general terms, framed within the concept of mélanges, see Gruzinski, The Mestizo Mind. 7. See, among the literature mentioned in the following footnote, in particular, Duviols, La lutte contre les religions autochtones; Mills, Idolatry and Its Enemies; Millones, “Los hechizos del Perú”; Silverblatt, Moon, Sun, and Witches; and Griffiths, The Cross and the Serpent. 8. I mention here mainly historical and ethnohistorical studies. Studies by archaeologists, anthropologists, and ethnographers who have dealt with Andean rituals, with Andean religious specialists (sometimes called shamans), or with the religious-­ socio-­political-­economic complex in different Andean cultures and times will be cited as appropriate within the individual chapters. See Duviols, La lutte contre les religions autochtones dans le Pérou colonial and Procesos y visitas de idola­ trías; Mills, Idolatry and Its Enemies; García Cabrera, Ofensa a Dios; Salomon and Urioste, The Huarochirí Manuscript; Salomon, “Shamanism and Politics in Late-­

274  notes to pages 3–4 colonial Ecuador,” 413–27; Millones, “Shamanismo y política en el Perú colonial,” 131–49, and “Los hechizos del Perú,” 3–14; Ramos and Urbano, Catolicismo y extirpa­ ción de idolatrías; Ramos, “Política eclesiástica y la extirpación de la idolatría,” 147– 69; Puente Luna, Los curacas hechiceros de Jauja; MacCormack, “Gods, Demons, and Idols in the Andes,” 623–47; Sánchez, Amancebados, hechiceros y rebeldes; Griffiths, The Cross and the Serpent and Sacred Dialogues; Estenssoro Fuchs, “La construcción de un más allá colonial,” 415–39, and Del paganismo a la santidad; Larco, Más allá de los encantos; Glass-­Coffin, “Engendering Peruvian Shamanism through Time,” 205–38; Silverblatt, Moon, Sun, and Witches and “The Evolution of Witchcraft and the Meaning of Healing in Colonial Andean Society,” 413–27; Manarelli, “Inquisición y mujeres: Las hechiceras en el Perú durante el siglo XVII,” 141–55; Gareis, Reli­ giöse Spezialisten and “Repression and Cultural Change,” 230–55; Polia Meconi, La cosmovisión religiosa andina; and Platt and Bouysse-­Cassagne, Qaraqara-­Charka, 135–235; and, from an ethnographical perspective, Platt, “The Sound of Light: Emergent Communication Through Quechua Shamanic Dialogue,” 196–229, and “Writing, Shamanism and Identity or Voices from Abya-­Yala,” 132–41; Bouysse-­Cassagne, “El sol de adentro: Wakas y santos en las minas de Charcas y en el Lago Titicaca,” 59–97; Saignes, “‘Idolâtrie sans extirpateur,’” 711–31; Martínez, Una mesa ritual en Sucre; and Barnadas, “Idolatrías en Charcas (1560–1620),” 89–105. 9. There has been the suggestion to abolish the term holy or sacred from the description of Andean religion. See especially Astvaldsson, Las voces de los wak’a. Three arguments are brought forth: first, a possible confusion of terms with a Judeo-­ Christian understanding of the holy; second, the argument that Andeans (in some highland areas) did not and do not distinguish between natural and supernatural spheres; third, the argument that religion in Andean societies was and is not separate from sociopolitical realities. See also Maarten van de Guchte’s unpublished PhD thesis, “Carving the World,” especially 237–71; and Salomon’s “How the huacas were,” 7–17. In this book, however, I show, based on extensive discussion of colonial testimonies, how this colonial Andean notion of the holy needs to be defined (see especially chapter 3) and show—for the first time—how and for whom this Andean notion of the holy changed under the impact of transcultural processes (see chapters 4–7). As many Andeans continued to venerate exceptional embodied natural powers, which living human beings did not possess, and considered these powers and their veneration crucial for their society, this book, in that sense, speaks of an Andean notion of the holy. The colonial Andean notion of nature is also understood as embodiment of powers, but in more general terms, as it is not limited to the embodiment of those specific powers that constitute huacas or sacred items. 10. Early modern Europeans distinguished, in addition, the preternatural from the natural and the supernatural—a distinction that was not adopted by Andeans. In the Andean world, as will be shown in chapters 5, 7, and 9, the European preternatural (the demon, most prominently) was considered either natural or supernatural. 11. Historians of the colonial Andes still have not come to a consensus about what happened to Andean religion during colonial times. We may classify them into two groups. The first group of historians argues for a wholesale transformation of Andean religion: Kubler, “The Quechua in the Colonial World,” 331–410; Duviols, La lutte contre les religions autochtones dans le Pérou colonial; Estenssoro Fuchs, Del

notes to pages 5–6  275 paganismo a la santidad; Redden, Diabolism in Colonial Peru. The second group of historians believes that Andeans were partially incorporated into Catholicism, but they argue for a limited transformation of Andean religion: Marzal, La transforma­ ción religiosa peruana; MacCormack, Religion in the Andes; Mills, Idolatry and Its Enemies; Griffiths, Sacred Dialogues. These historians don’t agree on where to locate transformations in Andean religion: on the level of intellectual categories (Marzal), on the level of concepts and rituals (Mills), on the level of concepts (Griffiths), or with respect to a distinction between urban and rural highland Andean ritual practitioners (MacCormack). Huertas Vallejos (La religión en una sociedad [1981]) only refers to changes in Andean religion as a result of Inca conquest. 12. At different points in this study I discuss the nature of the respective sources and their inherent problems for interpretation. For a general overview of chroniclers in Peru, see Pease, Las crónicas y los Andes; and Porras Barrenechea, Los cronistas del Perú. On the basic characteristics of Jesuit sources and how they were composed, see, for example, Clossey, Salvation and Globalization, 193–216. On the ecclesiastical visitation records from the archdiocese of Lima, see Gutiérrez Arbulú, “Índice de la sección hechicerías e idolatrías del archivo Arzobispal de Lima,” 105–37; and Duviols, La lutte contre les religions autochtones. On the nature of Peruvian Inquisition records, see Millar Carvacho, Inquisición y sociedad en el virreinato peruano; and Castañeda Delgado and Hernández Aparicio, La Inquisición de Lima. 13. See, for example, Astrain, Historia de la Compañía de Jesús en la Assistencia de España; Mateos, Historia general de la Compañía de Jesús; Vargas Ugarte, His­ toria de la Compañia de Jesús en el Perú; Marzal, La utopía posible: Indios y jesuitas en la América colonial; Klaiber, Los jesuitas en América Latina; Martín, The Intel­ lectual Conquest of Peru; and Prieto, Missionary Scientists. The last book appeared after the completion of this manuscript. 14. Among the exceptions have to be counted the Huarochirí Manuscript and Guaman Poma’s and Pachacuti Yamqui Salcamaygua’s works. 15. A mesa was (and is) the personal arrangement of objects used by a religious specialist in a given ritual. The term instrument simply suggests that the objects were (and are) part of a mesa. The contents of modern mesas are highly complex, and colonial documents offer historians only fragmentary pictures of those of the past. And yet their objects are our purest mirror of Andean traditions. Today the mesas of religious specialists from the northern and southern Andes vary considerably. For the two different traditions, see Fernández Juárez, Entre la repugnancia y la seducción; Flores Ochoa, “La missa andina,” 717–28; and Martínez, Una mesa ritual en Sucre. See also Wachtel, Le retour des ancêstres, 151–92; Polia Meconi, “La mesa curanderil,” 23–53; and Rösing, White, Grey and Black: Kallawaya Healing Rituals. Mariscotti de Görlitz’s ethnohistorical study Pachamama Santa Tierra gives an overview of the various meanings of symbols, some of which are assembled in mesas; however, she does not focus on historical change. 16. An Andean symbol, as suggested in this book, is not merely a referent to something separate from the referee. From a colonial Andean perspective, Andean symbols are embodied powers and conceptually tied to huacas, or, as seventeenth-­ century documents suggest, and as Garcilaso de la Vega (Royal Commentaries, book 2, chap. 4, 76–77) noted with respect to offerings to the Sun, they were huacas.

276  notes to pages 6–8 This book suggests expanding the common definition of huacas and counting among them everything that, according to Andeans, contained powers beyond the reach of any living human being and defined by processes of mythologization (either in a narrative or a practical performance). For different definitions of huacas at different stages of history see Bauer, The Sacred Landscape, 4–6; Marco Curatola, “La función de los oráculos,” 17; van de Guchte’s “Carving the World”; Astvaldsson, Las voces de los wak’a (all with reference to further historical literature on huacas); and Platt and Bouysse-­Cassagne, Qaraqara-­Charka, 135–81. 17. As is well known, the histories of the Inca by Juan Diez de Betanzos, Cristóbal de Molina, Polo de Ondegardo, Guaman Poma, Sarmiento de Gamboa, Pachacuti Yamqui Salcamaygua, and Garcilaso de la Vega all offer different contexts and thus clues for approaching what might be the symbols’ original meanings. 18. Wachtel and Murra, Anthropological History of Andean Polities. For an archaeological perspective see Isbell’s and Silverman’s introductions to Andean Ar­ chaeology, vols. 1 and 2. John Murra’s model of the vertical archipelago may be named here representatively. Archaeological, historical, and ethnographic scholarship on Andean economic and socioeconomic relations during different stages of history is abundant. I just name here Masuda, Shimada, and Morris, Andean Ecology and Civilization; and Larson and Harris, Ethnicity, Markets, and Migration, both with reference to the older standard literature and an appreciation of Murra’s model. For an innovative new appreciation of social dynamics in Andean societies see Platt, “From the Island’s Point of View: Warfare and Transformation in an Andean Vertical Archipelago,” 33–70. 19. See, for example, Urton, Inca Myths. 20. For telling examples within the wealth of literature on mitmas see Espinoza Soriano, “Los mitmas cañar,” 63–82, and “Colonias de mitmas multiples,” 225–99. 21. We will have to wait for more microhistorical studies of single ayllus and single ethnic groups to grasp nuances of local deviations within ritual performances. 22. I could not find sixteenth- and seventeenth-­century documentation on religious specialists’ mesas from the northern highlands. 23. For details, see chapters 5 and 6; and Millones, “Los hechizos del Perú,” 3–14. There is no colonial documentation on the mesas used by religious specialists from the southern coast. 24. On the concepts of acculturation, mestizaje and mélange see, for example, Wachtel, La vision des vaincus; Gruzinski, Mestizo Mind; Bastide, Les Amériques noires; and Todorov, Cruce de culturas y mestizaje cultural; and for an example in the realm of medicine and native knowledge in Mexico, Aguirre Beltran, Medicina y magia. On the related concept of “hybridity” with respect to the Andes, Latin America, and in more general terms, see Dean and Leibsohn, “Hybridity and Its Discontents,” 5–35; Osorio, “El callejón de la soledad,” 198–229; García Canclini, Cul­ turas híbridas; Lupo, “Síntesis controvertidas,” 11–37; Wood, Transcending Conquest; and the classic study by Bhabha, The Location of Culture. 25. Scholars from different fields employ the terms northern, central, and southern coast, and highlands (alternatively labeled “the Andes”) quite differently; I use northern coast to refer to the coast north of Huarmey, to Tumbez and into modern-­day Ecuador; central coast, for the coast south of Lima to Nazca; southern

notes to pages 9–16  277 coast for the coast south of Nasca into modern-­day Chile; and northern highlands for the highlands north of Huánuco. The central Andes stretch from Huánuco to Huamanga (the modern Ayacucho) and into the Lucanas region; southern Andes refers to the region around Cuzco and south of it, stretching into Potosí. 26. For the extent of territory under the auspices of the Audiencia of Lima during the sixteenth century, see Recoplicación de leyes, 1:325 (libro II, título XV, ley 5). 27. Schwartz and Salomon, “New Peoples and New Kinds of People,” 443–501. 28. See Rowe, “Inca Culture at the Time of the Spanish Conquest,” 183–330. For a recent discussion about the problems involved in the use of the category of ethnic identities during precolonial and colonial times see Martínez, Gente de la tierra de guerra. 29. Puente Luna (Los curacas hechiceros de Jauja, 43) asserts that hechizería must be studied within a local framework. See also Mills, “The Naturalization of Andean Christianities,” 504–35. On the merits of local versus global foci in Andean studies, see Rappaport, “Imagining Andean Colonial Culture,” 687–701. 30. I did gain valuable insights from recent literature on the relationship between magic and religion that has critiqued the ideas of Emile Durkheim and Max Weber. Particularly valuable in providing an overview of the vast range of theoretical and methodological approaches to investigations into practices and beliefs often labeled as “magic” were Schäfer and Kippenberg, Envisioning Magic; and Cunningham, Reli­ gion and Magic. 31. See especially Duviols, La lutte contre les religions autochtones dans le Pérou colonial; Silverblatt, Moon, Sun, and Witches, 159–96; Mills, Idolatry and Its Ene­ mies; and Griffiths, La cruz y la serpiente, 47–127. 32. For exemplary postcolonial views on cultural encounters with respect to the Iberian world see Dussel, The Invention of the Americas; and Mignolo, The Darker Side of the Renaissance. See also Taussig, Shamanism, Colonialism, and the Wild Man. 33. Mills, Idolatry and Its Enemies. 34. Hyland, The Jesuit and the Incas. 35. Spain has its own long history of hechizería and its treatment from the Middle Ages to Renaissance times, reaching into legal, literary, ecclesiastical, and sociopolitical history. Hechizería was a great point of contention between Christians, Moors, and Jews. For first information see Corry, Perceptions of Magic, with background information on the positions of civil and ecclesiastical law towards hechi­ zería; Caro Baroja, Las brujas y su mundo and Vidas mágicas e Inquisición; Gracia Boix, Brujas y hechiceras de Andalucía; Blázquez, Hechicería y superstición en Cas­ tilla–La Mancha; Bonilla, Historia de la hechicería y de las brujas; Lea, A History of the Inquisition, 179–246; Cardaillac-­Hermosilla, La magie en Espagne: Morisques et vieux chrétiens aux XVIe et XVIIe siècles; and Pingree, “The Diffusion of Arabic Magical Texts in Western Europe,” 57–102. 36. Castañega, Tratado, 23–32. Castañega might have gotten inspiration from Martín of Braga’s discussion of the idolatrous and demonic rituals performed by peasants in De correctione rusticorum (572–74), which enjoyed wide distribution on the Iberian Peninsula during medieval times. See Martin von Bracara, De correc­ tione rusticorum.

278  notes to pages 16–17 37. Castañega, Tratado; for example, 77–78. 38. Castañega, Tratado, 35, a somewhat liberal translation; unless otherwise indicated, all translations are my own. 39. Castañega, Tratado, 33. 40. Castañega, Tratado, 25–32. 41. Castañega, Tratado, 24. 42. Compare the decisions of the Councils of Elvira in 324, of Braga in 572, of Toledo in 627, and of the last Council of Toledo in 694. The latter directed its edicts against priests who practiced sorcery. 43. For Augustine’s comment on idolatry, see De civitate Dei, 9–11. Castañega relied on Thomas Aquinas in his definition of superstitio and followed the scholastic thinker in assuming that there was a pact between witches and the devil. See Aquinas, Summa Theologiae, II-­II, q. 92–96; and Aquinas, Summa contra gentiles, 3, 2, cap. 103 ff. 44. Acosta, Natural and Moral History, book 7, chaps. 27–28, 442–49. See also Acosta’s attitude toward hechizeros in his De procuranda indorum salute, 1:375. See also Prieto, Missionary Scientists, 70–76. For beliefs in the might of the devil in Spanish America see Cervantes, The Devil in the New World; and Redden, Diabo­ lism in Colonial Peru. 45. On Polo de Ondegardo’s biography see Presta and Julien, “Polo Ondegardo,” 529–35; Hampe Martínez, “Apuntes para una biografía del licenciado Polo de Ondegardo,” 81–115; and Lohmann Villena, “El licenciado Juan Polo de Ondegardo,” 319–25. In general, the First Council held that hechizeros were to receive the punishment of flogging. The Second Church Council of Lima allowed hechizeros, under certain conditions, to work as herbalists. Yet the Third Council of Lima mandated the physical separation of hechizeros from Andean commoners and requested priests to persecute hechizeros more stringently. On a more nuanced analysis of the attitude toward hechizeros by the First, Second, and Third Councils of Lima see chapters 1 and 4. 46. Castañega, Tratado, 39. 47. See Polo de Ondegardo, “Errores,” 26–28. 48. Martín de Castañega clearly propounded the idea that hechizeros were always worshipping the devil with various kinds of sacrifices, and Polo de Ondegardo emphasized that sacrifices did not cease after the Spanish conquest. Hechizeros, healers, or diviners performed no action without a sacrifice to the Sun, Thunder, or, for example, some “person that appeared to them” (Polo de Ondegardo, “Errores,” 33, 35–36; Castañega, Tratado, 47). According to Polo de Ondegardo, human sacrifice in the Andes occurred when a healer sacrificed a son in order to bring health back to his father (see “Errores,” 15). This account reminds the reader of Abraham’s willingness to sacrifice his own son, which Castañega (Tratado, 53) had prominently foregrounded as one example of the range of sacrifices among Jews. That hechizeros were sacrificing their own children is a common theme in European observations. 49. Polo de Ondegardo followed the sequence of topics given by Castañega: hechi­ zerías, women, flying, sacrifices, and healers. In “Errores” (6), he mentions that the prayer to Viracocha entailed a gesture of a kiss. Castañega (Tratado, 51–52) claimed that kisses to the devil were a sign of deference. Polo de Ondegardo (“Errores,” 35–37) and Castañega (Tratado, 59, 75) both distinguished between healers and sorcerers. Castañega discussed whether hechizeras were allowed to heal by sorcery. Polo de

notes to page 18  279 Ondegardo took up Castañega’s formulation—“deshacer unos maleficios con otros” (Tratado, 58)—and provided an Andean example: “para que deshagan el daño que sospechan avérseles hecho por algún mal suyo” (28). Ondegardo’s caution in applying the term witch to Andean hechizeras also points to Castañega’s influence. It was indeed problematic to call an Andean religious specialist who had just been baptized a “witch”; as already noted, by Castañega’s definition a witch had intentionally entered into a pact with the devil, consciously leaving the Catholic Church (Polo de Ondegardo, “Errores,” 29; Castañega, Tratado, 41–45). 50. Cieza de León, Crónica, 113, 376. We will return to him in chapter 4. Earlier texts and chronicles say little about hechizeros but sometimes provide valuable insights into related topics; see López de Gómara (composed 1551, published 1552), Un memorial del gobierno de los Incas del año 1551 (edited by John Rowe), Pedro de la Gasca (1553), Agustín de Zarate (1555), Bartolomé de las Casas (1550s), Cristóbal de Molina (also known as el Chileno or el Almagrista, 1552), Girolamo Benzoni (1565), Alonso Borregán (1565), Juan de Matienzo (published in 1567, with the manuscript in circulation earlier), Pedro Pizarro (1571), Hernando de Santillán (1563), and Reginaldo de Lizarraga (ca. 1614). 51. Cieza de León, Crónica, 378–80. On demonic activities in the New World see 99, 212, 217, 280, 349, 378. 52. Relación de los agustinos, 39. 53. Guaman Poma, Nueva corónica, images 274–82, 1:203–9. I will introduce more of Guaman Poma’s distinctions between the hechizeros during the course of the book. 54. Sarmiento labeled outstanding individuals with exceptional powers as follows: Inca Rocca, “del cual se dice que fue gran nigromántico” (Historia, 89); Antarqui, “el cual todos éstos afirman que era grande nigromántico, tanto que volaba por los aires” (123); and Condin Savana, “del cual dicen que era grande hechicero y encantador” (129). See also chapter 2. 55. Betanzos, Narrative, 231–34. For investigations into the history of hechizería, Diez de Betanzos—along with Cristóbal de Molina—is one of the main informants about Inca (and, in part, Andean) symbolism. On the third Inca, Lloque Yupanqui, as another Merlin, see Betanzos, Narrative, 17. According to Diez de Betanzos, this similarity explains how the Inca was able to expel the Alcaviças from Cuzco. Sarmiento attributed similar features to Mayta Capac. On Merlin in a European context see Butler, Myth of the Magus, 104–11. On his popularity in medieval and early modern Spanish literature, see Bonilla, Historia, 144, 159; and Garrosa Resina, Magia y superstición, 310. Merlin continued to be the prototype of prophets in Delrío, Dis­ quisitionum magicarum libri sex, 141; and in Nieremberg, Curiosa, y oculta filo­ sofía, 89. 56. Molina was exceptionally careful in delineating rituals of so-­called hechizeros of Inca times, and his work will be extremely useful to us. For a discussion of his influence on Albornoz, his contemporaries, and the Third Council of Lima, see MacCormack, Religion in the Andes; as well as Durston, Pastoral Quechua. 57. Spanish chroniclers believed they saw a hierarchy among Andean religious specialists similar to that among the priests in the Inca empire (and according to some, similar to the Roman world). Some declared that the umu, or diviner, represented the highest office. According to others, the huacapvíllac, the one who con-

280  notes to pages 19–23 sulted huacas, was the leader. Chroniclers also believed there was a division of labor among religious specialists. These discussions of hierarchical structures and division of labor stopped in 1621, when Arriaga published his treatise Extirpación de los idolatrías. 58. This was a European convention within the discourse on magic. Lawyers were particularly focused on establishing fine distinctions between the different kinds of sorcerers. See, for example, Damhouder, Praxis rerum criminalium (1562), a book widely distributed in colonial libraries. Also see the holdings of the Recoleta cloister in Arequipa. 59. Cobo, Historia del nuevo mundo 2:225. 60. For references see chapter 1. 61. Some have argued that the Spanish and Creole discourse on indigenous religious practices shifted its focus from “formal idolatry” to superstitions (Mills, Idolatry and Its Enemies, 266). But in the history of Spanish terminology in colonial Peru, superstitio and idolatry were used interchangeably. 62. See chapters 1 and 5. See also the principles formulated in the first provincial council of the Augustinians, spelled out in Villarejo, Los agustinos en el Perú. 63. González Holguín, Vocabulario, s.v. “umo”; Ramos Gavilán, Historia, 58. 64. This notion of mago being wiser than others was rooted in the book of Matthew’s description of the three magi following the star of Bethlehem. It survived a second view, circulating from Isidore of Seville onward, which emphasized the mago’s pact with the demon, made to inflict harm. On both traditions, see Covarrubias Orozco, Tesoro, 728, s.v. “mago”; and Sevilla, Etimologías, 8:9. 65. Peña Montenegro, Itinerario para párrocos, 1:489. 66. Acosta, De procuranda indorum salute, 1:375. 67. See chapters 2, 3, and 7. 68. Castañega, Tratado, 33, 37 ff. 69. See Viceroy Esquilache’s letter (1619) to the king of Spain in Duviols, “La idolatría en cifras,” 92. See Monter, Ritual, Myth, and Magic, 61–78, and Frontiers of Heresy, 179–246; and Corry, Perceptions of Magic, 79. 70. Examples of the persecution of witches in the seventeenth century are given in chapter 4; disputes about witchcraft in the eighteenth century are discussed in chapter 8. See also Silverblatt, Moon, Sun and Witches. 71. See Sarmiento de Gamboa, History of the Incas, 135; Castañega, Tratado, 41; See Ciruelo, Reprobación, 49, 108. On the Andean attitude towards ancestors, see Isbell, Mummies and Mortuary Monuments; and Gose, Invaders as Ancestors. 72. For an exception see, of course, Garcilaso de la Vega’s Royal Commentaries and Guaman Poma’s Nueva corónica. 73. Ciruelo, Reprobación, 25, 29–45, esp. 26. See Ebersole, “Pedro Ciruelo,” 430–37. 74. Ciruelo, Reprobación: “hechizerías, quiere dezir hechuras vanas: y que ninguna virtud natural tienen para hazer aquella cosas a que se las aplican” (47); “que todas las supersticiones y hechizerías vanas las hallo y enseño el diablo a los hombres” (39). Covarrubias, in defining hechizar (Tesoro, 624), draws particularly on Ciruelo. 75. Ciruelo, Reprobación, 53. 76. Henningsen, The Witches’ Advocate; Caro Baroja, Las brujas y su mundo and Vidas mágicas y Inquisición.

notes to pages 23–28  281 77. See, for example, Sevilla, Etimologías, 8:9,9: “Magi sunt, qui vulgo malefici ob facinorum magnitudinem nuncupantur.” 78. Calancha, Crónica moralizada, 473. 79. Acosta, Natural and Moral History, 26, 159.

Chapter one 1. I discuss only one panel of a larger picture; three scenes above it depict a preaching Jesuit, death, and the extreme unction. For a different interpretation than the one given here, see Gisbert, “El cielo y el infierno,” 35–49. See also Mesa and Gisbert, Holguín y la pintura virreinal, 91–95, mentioning Joseph de Arellano, who commissioned the picture (93). His biography is otherwise unknown. Mujica Pinilla— with reference to Gabriela Siracusano—points at a charge against Arellano in 1683 for having “failed to repress native idolatry” (“Hell in the Andes,” 94). 2. Cummins, Toasts with the Inca. 3. In the Vulgate, Matthew 8:12 reads: “filii autem regni eiicientur in tenebras exteriores: ibi erit fletus et stridor dentium.” By concentrating on the punishment of sinners in hell, the Latin caption in the image changes the original meaning of Matthew 8:5–13, in which Jesus admirably talks of the belief of a pagan in God and the role of faith within salvation. The caption, however, only threatens newly converted Christians who have returned (or will return) to their pagan practices with punishment in hell. 4. Cook, Demographic Collapse, 246. 5. Salles-­Reese, From Viracocha to the Virgin of Copacabana. 6. For the various myths about Viracocha, the one who brought order to the world, see Urton, Inca Myths; and, in particular, Molina, “Relación,” 53–55; and Pachacuti, “Relación,” 231–40. The origin of the Incas was also related to Tambo Tocco; see, for example, Vega, Royal Commentaries, chap. 18, 47–52. 7. Some historians refer to Inca myth, others to Inca history. See Zuidema, “Myth and History in Ancient Peru,” 150–75; MacCormack, “History, Historical Record, and Ceremonial Action,” 329–63; and Julien, Reading Inca History. 8. On the relationship between the ruling Incas and the people from the Collasuyo, see Julien, Hatunqolla and Die Inka. On the importance of Lake Titicaca for Inca culture see, for example, Stanish, Ancient Titicaca, 236–77; Urton, Inca Myths; and Bauer and Stanish, Las islas del sol y de la luna. 9. Guaman Poma, Nueva corónica, images 277, 248, 1:206, 184; compare figures 270, 293, and 92. Guaman Poma’s depiction of the Vallaviça in his Nueva corónica is similar to his depiction of the Vilaoma (or Villahumo) in Martín de Murúa’s history of the Inca (Historia del origen y genealogía real de los reyes ingas del Pirú; commonly known as the Galvin Manuscript). As I have consulted a reproduction of the original manuscript by Testimonio Madrid, this will be cited hereafter as “the Galvin Manuscript, 111v.” In the Galvin Manuscript, however, Vilaoma is entitled pontífice (priest) and not hechizero. In both instances, however, an iconographic link between the Vallaviça or Vilaoma and the officials from the Collasuyo with their typical headdresses and chin gear is obvious. For a general discussion of Guaman Poma’s contribution to Murúa’s manuscript, see Adorno and Boserup, “The Making of Murúa’s Historia General del Pirú,” 7–75, especially 22–23; Cummins, “The Uncomfortable

282  notes to pages 28–29 Image,” 46–60; and “The Images in Murúa’s Historia General del Pirú,” 147–73. In the following chapters, I discuss differences between the Galvin and Getty manuscripts whenever they are meaningful. 10. On Vilaoma, see also Cieza de León, Crónica, 324: “Residía en su templo principal que ellos tenían su gran sacerdote, a quien llamaban Vilaoma”; and Valera, “Relación,” 157: “El gran Vilahoma era como supremo árbitro y juez en los casos de su religión y de los templos, à quien reconocian y reverenciaban los reyes y señores y todos los del pueblo y los ministros. Su vida era como religiosa, de mucha abstinencia. . . . Las fiestas más principales acudia á los templos del gran Illa Tecce, ó del sol ó de Pirva; y para poner el encienso ó hacer sacrificio ó ofrenda, se vestia desta manera: una gran tiara en la cabeza, que era á manera de capirote ó papahigo . . . que llamaban Vila Chucu; sobre este ponia la más de la armazon, como era una patena de oro hecha á manera del sol, y encima una gran diadema, y abajo de la barba una media luna de oro, y por extremo plumas largas de papagayos grandes, que llaman guacamayas.” Valera went on to show how the Vilaoma supervised indigenous confessors, the construction of temples, and indigenous historians. Garcilaso (Royal Com­ mentaries, 183) followed Blas Valera, who to some extent conflated Inca religion and Roman religion. Cobo (Historia del nuevo mundo, 2:224) in turn followed Garcilaso and explained that the “Vilaoma” was a Spanish misunderstanding of Villac-­Umu (“adivino o hechicero que dice”), who was the master over the Tarpuntay, the priests in charge of the Sun who came from the ayllu Tarpuntay. On Blas Valera and on Garcilaso’s reference to him, see MacCormack, Religion in the Andes; and Hyland, The Jesuit and the Incas. 11. Cieza de León, Crónica, 232; Bastien, Healers of the Andes. 12. Pachacuti, “Relación,” 279. Pachacuti’s information was obtained from the Collasuyo and the northern parts of Tawantinsuyo, especially from the region of the Cañaris. Chroniclers allow only for a rough reconstruction of the regional distribution of different types of hechizeros in the early sixteenth century. According to Cieza de León, Collas were famous for their herbal knowledge. Ondegardo counts ychuris (indigenous confessors) and flying hechizeros among the Collas. Cristóbal de Molina’s information on ritual specialists centers around Cuzco. Polo de Ondegardo is the one who tried to give the most complete picture of the distribution of different kinds of ritual specialists from the entire Inca Tawantinsuyo and the young viceroyalty. 13. Ramos Gavilán, Historia, 58 (all translations are mine unless otherwise indicated). 14. Sixteenth- and early seventeenth-­century chroniclers collected other such histories from the quipucamayocs (cord keepers) in Cuzco, from Indians and religious specialists in Huarochirí, and from informants belonging to the ethnic groups around Lake Titicaca (Cieza de León, Crónica, 261; Betanzos, Narrative, 128; Sarmiento, History, 51, 61, 168, 176 [if not noted otherwise, I cite in the following from Markham’s edition]; Huarochirí Manuscript, chap. 18; Guaman Poma, Nueva coró­ nica, images 113, 262, 1:90, 195; Pachacuti, “Relación,” 24, 254, 280; and Calancha, Crónica moralizada, 409). 15. The best description of the political conquest is still Hemming, Conquest of the Incas. See also Pease, Del Tawantinsuyu a la historia del Perú. 16. Acosta, De procuranda indorum salute, 1:375.

notes to pages 29–33  283 17. Among the many local studies on colonial curacas I only refer to Wachtel, La vision des vaincus; Pease, “Curacas coloniales,” 87–107; and Ramírez, “From People to Place and Back Again,” 355–81. 18. For example, Rostworowski, “Costa peruana prehispánica.” 19. Wachtel, La vision des vaincus, introduction. 20. In the late seventeenth and early eighteenth centuries, depictions of hell abounded in the southern Andes. A splendid example is Diego Quispe Tito’s image in the Convent of San Francisco Cuzco. See Mujica Pinilla, “The Last Judgement,” in The Arts in Latin America, 425. On the spiritual background, see Villagómez, Carta pastoral; and Avila, Tratado. 21. Introductions to the history of evangelization are offered by Málaga Medina, La evangelización del Perú siglo XVI; Marzal, La transformación religiosa peruana; MacCormack, Religion in the Andes; Estenssoro Fuchs, Del paganismo a la san­ tidad; and Durston, Pastoral Quechua. 22. See Szemiñski’s edition of Domingo de Santo Tomás’s Lexicon o vocabulario de la lengua general. The dictionary was completed in 1555. 23. See Mannheim, The Language of the Inka; and Durston, Pastoral Quechua. 24. He is the likely author of Anonymous, Arte y vocabulario en la lengua gen­ eral. See MacCormack, “Grammar and Virtue,” 576–601. 25. Torres Rubio, Arte de la lengua quichua; and Torres Rubio, Arte y vocabulario. 26. Diez de San Miguel, Visita hecha a la provincia de Chucuito and his letter to Philip II, July 7, 1568, in Egaña, Monumenta Peruana (hereafter MP), 1:233. See also Meiklejohn, Julí y los jesuitas, 1–33. For a Dominican commentary on the event, see Meléndez, Tesoros verdaderos de las Yndias, 1:240. 27. Meiklejohn, La iglesia y los lupaqas; MP, 3:35. 28. MP, 1:410 and especially 416. By Jesuit standards, Cercado was considered a success. Huarochirí was the Jesuits’ first official Indian parish in Peru (MP, 1:373–74). In 1570 Jesuits were still very optimistic about their prospects of evangelizing the Indians (MP, 1:425), but one year later the Jesuits quit Huarochirí (see Bartolomé Hernández’s letter from Lima to Joanni de Ovando, April 19, 1572 [MP, 1:470–71]). 29. Albó, “Jesuitas y culturas indígenas,” 282. 30. On the Julí printing press, see Medina, La imprenta en Lima. 31. See Arriaga’s carta annua to Aquaviva (1597) in MP, 6:358–64, esp. 361. 32. Arriaga, Extirpación, 168. 33. See Estenssoro Fuchs, “Construyendo la memoria,” 158–62. The author does not examine the context of the vigorous persecution of hechizeros, particularly in this region. 34. Francisco Borgia, from Rome, to Francisco de Toledo, November 14, 1570 (MP, 1:407). Peruvian Jesuits adopted the metaphor; see, for example, MP, 7:445, where Rodrigo de Cabredo reported to Claudio Aquaviva on April 30, 1601. 35. “Para extirpar y desarraigar tan malas yervas”; Alonso Granero de Avalos, letter to Diego de Torres, March 20, 1582 (MP, 3:113–15; quote from 114). 36. MP, 3:113–15. On the prison’s use, see 113; for the year 1600, see Rodrigo de Cabredo’s annual letter to Claudio Aquaviva, April 20, 1600 (MP, 7:94). 37. On the Dominican prison in Chucuito, see Pease, “Documentos sobre Chucuito,” 25, 28. The documents show that hechizeros were employed as weavers (“Iten tres sobrecamas de cunbi que le hizieron los indios hechiceros que estavan presos

284  notes to pages 33–34 de la lana de la comunidad” [25]). In an edict issued on June 16, 1571, Viceroy Francisco Toledo repeated that hechizeros should be confined in a prison located near the priest’s house. While incarcerated they were to add to indigenous tribute payments by weaving and by producing canvas shoes and mats (Toledo, “Libro de visita géneral,” 179). Edict no. 107 issued by the Second Lima Council tightened the punishment prescribed by the First Council (see Vargas Ugarte, Concilios limenses, 1:211, on the Second Council; 1–93, on the First Council). 38. MP, 3:113–15. The prison was still in use in the late seventeenth century. See AAL, “sección hechizerías,” leg. 8, 2 (Chupaca, 1689–94). 39. Bouysse-­Cassagne, “De Empédocles a Tunupa,” 157–213; Demarest, Viracocha; Gisbert, “El cielo y el infierno,” 35–49; Gisbert and Arze, Arte textil y mundo andino; Gisbert, Iconografía y mitos, 35–46; Kolata, Tiwanaku and Its Hinterland, 2:200; and Wachtel, “Nota sobre el problema de las identidades,” 677–90. 40. MacCormack, Religion in the Andes, 320. 41. On Andean concepts of time, see the discussion on the Inkarrí in Pease, Los últimos Incas del Cuzco; Gow, “The Roles of Christ and Inkarrí in Andean Religion,” 279–98; Randall, “Del tiempo y del río,” 69–94; Randall, “Qoyllur Rit’i,” 37–81; and (a modern anthropological interpretation) Tomoeda, “Estética del ritual andino,” 189–219. 42. Gisbert, “Pachacamac y los dioses del Collao,” 105–21; and Demarest, Vira­ cocha. Viracocha was also assimilated to Pachacamac. 43. Drunkenness (borracheras) was a standard topic in the sixteenth- and seventeenth-­century Peruvian literature on indigenous people. The European discourse assumed that drunkenness resulted in demonic confusion or even allowed the demon to enter the Indians’ bodies. On Catholic positions on borracheras during the seventeenth century, see Ávila, Relación, 388–89; Villagómez, Carta pastoral; ARSI, Perú, vol. 20, fols. 130–38: “Relación de Juan de Soto de los Mojos” (1667); and AAT, XX-­1-­5: “De la visita pastoral que se mandó hacer al Lic. Bartolomé Paredes, cura y vicario de las estancias de la provincia de Huamachuco 1762.” For the meaning of drinking in the Andean world, see Saignes, Borrachera y memoria. 44. ARSI, Perú, vol. 19, fols. 60–61; and MP, 7:94–96. 45. Ramos Gavilán, Historia, 36 (near Quilca). The sandals (and their “superior fragrance”) drew admiring notice even in European treatises; see Castrillo, Historia y magia natural, 128. 46. The Jesuit provincial archive in Lima preserves the Memoria de las sagradas reliquias, que tiene este colegio de San Pablo de la Compañia de Jesús de Lima por abril del año de 1661, which was authenticated in 1676 by Don Diego de Salazar. It contains an entry on several miracle-­working crosses, one of which contained twelve pieces of the Carabuco Cross that were elaborately combined with pieces of relics of San Borja and Luis Gonçaga (Memoria de las sagradas reliquias, fols. 12, 13). The pieces of the cross might equally well have been of another cross that had already served as a makeshift oar on its way to the New World and gained the power to spare the lives of many Jesuits on the high seas (see MP, 1:687). In any case, the cross that contained the pieces of the Cross of Carabuco in San Pablo is not identical with the cross that can be found today in the altar of the Church of Carabuco nor with a cross that has been preserved in the Jesuit church of Lima.

notes to pages 35–38  285 47. Ramos Gavilán, Historia, 35. See also Bandelier, “The Cross of Carabuco,” 599–628. 48. Ramos Gavilán, Historia, 100 ff., esp. 115, 124–26; AAT, Sumaria información sobre un milagro que hizo Ntra. Sra. de Copacabana, en la ciudad de Trujillo, vol­ viendo a la vida a un niño que se tenia por muerte, por haber caído en un estanque de agua (1601); Villarejo, Los agustinos en el Perú; Vargas Ugarte, Historia del culto de María; Gisbert, “Ángeles y dioses en Copacabana,” 617–43; MacCormack, “From the Sun to the Virgin of Copacabana,” 30–60; Salles-­Reese, From Viracocha to the Virgin of Copacabana; and Mazzotti, “Fernando de Valverde y los monstruos andinos,” 439–55. 49. Acosta, De procuranda indorum salute, 2:429, 229–35; and Relación de los agustinos, 10 (Atagujo, Sugadçavara, and Vaumgavrad). See also MacCormack, Reli­ gion in the Andes, 271, 312; and Mujica Pinilla, “Christ Child of Huanca,” 298, and “Three-­Faced Trinity,” 392. On mid-­seventeenth-­century Augustinian interests in Andean mythology, see also Gisbert, “Ángeles y dioses en Copacabana,” 617–41. The depiction of the Holy Trinity provides another example of such accommodation: to clarify this impossibly difficult concept, artists painted Jesus, God, and the Holy Ghost as three identical figures (see Mujica Pinilla, Three-­Faced Trinity, 392). This convention went back to Acosta (De procuranda indorum salute, 2:229). Acosta emphasized that it would be more important in the missions to teach the unity of God, Son, and Holy Ghost than to explain the subtle theological distinctions between person and essence, and concluded: “pero tampoco hay que ponerse a perfilar con detalle estos conceptos ante ellos: si nos metemos en sutilezas, se les escaparán de su corte alcance. Crean, pues, en un solo Dios omnipotente, creador de todas las cosas; crean que éste es Padre, Hijo y Espíritu Santo. Y si llegan a más, podremos enseñarles que son tres personas distintas, pero iguales en todo, y un solo Dios, por tener una misma sustancia enteramente única. . . . Es, pues, necesario enseñar a todos que crean en un Dios Padre, Hijo y Espíritu Santo, como la religión cristiana lo venera. Eso es suficiente para los menos capaces y no es imposible para sus cortos alcances” (235). 50. Ramos Gavilán, Historia, 58–59. 51. González Holguín, Vocabulario, 366. Ychhuchini meant “confessarse con los hechizeros assi, o otros”; aucachic is the name for the confessor in the north (Arriaga, Extirpación, 33). 52. Guaman Poma, Nueva corónica, images 92, 93, 1:72–74. On Guaman Poma de Ayala’s biography and work, see Adorno, “Guaman Poma de Ayala,” 255–68; and Adorno and Boserup, New Studies of the Autograph Manuscript (2003). 53. See Castañega, Tratado, 139. 54. In sixteenth-­century European discourses, Saint Bartholomew could heal diabolically inflicted pains. His aid was implored for protection against the evil eye. See Ciruelo, Reprobación, 96. 55. According to Ramos Gavilán (Historia, 37), an Indian found a tunic and two sandals after the eruption of a volcano near the seas. Ramos Gavilán exclaimed, “O que hermosos son los pies de los que anuncian la paz,” adding that the “Padre provincial, Diego Alvarez de Paz, que vino a visitar el santuario de Nuestra Señora de Copacabana, ofreciéndoles tratar de la Cruz de Carabuco, certificó en presencia

286  notes to pages 38–39 de todos, haber visto el zapato y dijo ser tan levantado el olor y fragancia que de sí despedía, que dejaba atrás cualquier otro buen olor.” In sum, four relics testified to the Holy Thomas’s presence in the Andes: the cross, a tunic (brought to Spain, in Ramos Gavilán’s account), footprints, and the authentic sandal. All these items had miraculous healing properties. On the colonial discussion of the signs of the apostolic presence in precolonial times, see Calancha, Crónica moralizada, 326–29; and also MP, 7:92. On anti-­accommodationist attitudes among the Jesuit order itself, see Estenssoro Fuchs, Del paganismo. In general, historians have stressed Acosta’s anti-­accommodationist stance. See Estenssoro Fuchs, Del paganismo a la santidad, 188–93; MacCormack, Religion in the Andes, 94, and “Grammar and Virtue”; and Durston, Pastoral Quechua, 83–84. 56. See Doctrina christiana, “Catecismo mayor” (1584), 118: “¿A quien ha de confessar sus culpas el Christiano? Al sacerdote, que esta en lugar de Dios, y tiene poder para absolverle.” On the Jesuits’ predilection for confessions, see also Estenssoro Fuchs, Del paganismo a la santidad, 212. 57. Confessionario, 206; González Holguín, Vocabulario, 457 (“confessar falsa y fingidamente” meant “pacaspam o llullaspam confessacuni”); RML, V.U. 50, 3, Carta de los padres que residen en la mision de los Mojos para el Padre Hernando Cavero de la Compañía de Jesus, provincial de esta provincia del Peru, en que se le da noticia de lo que han visto, oido, y experimentado en el tiempo que ha que estan en ella, 1676; ARSI, Perú, vol. 19, fols. 220–25; on September 15, 1606, Gabriel Cerrado and Gregorio de Cisneros reported from their mission into Condesuyo that Indians would protect their hechizeros by not denouncing them in their confessions. 58. Quoted in Keitt, “Religious Enthusiasm,” 241. 59. Jesuit concerns about someone hiding information during confession are documented in the Carta annua 1603, 204; the Carta annua 1606, 194–95; and in Ayala, “Errores, ritos, supersticiones y ceremonias,” 275–97. See also sermon no. 13 of the Tercero cathecismo, 480–88, and in particular 484. See Álvarez, De las costum­ bres, 202–10, chap. 7. The image of the woman being surrounded by a demon could also refer to Bertonio, Confessionario, 244. 60. Polo de Ondegardo, “Errores,” 12. 61. Polo de Ondegardo, “Errores,” 12. 62. Other sins included killing outside of war, committing adultery, and giving herbs and hechizos to harm someone. It was also considered a sin to steal objects, to forget or refuse to venerate the huacas, to be remiss in observing feasts, and to mock the Inca. 63. It is tempting to ask whether Polo de Ondegardo’s canon of sins was an “authentic” reflection of the contemporary Andean world, let alone the Inca culture that had preceded the conquest. Did his account perhaps fuse indigenous concepts with some of the Christian commandments, such as the requirement to worship the one and only true God, or the ban against committing adultery? See Regalado de Hurtado, “En torno a las confesiones prehispánicas,” 229–53. But this question seems to miss the real point, which is how the concept of sin functioned during Inca and colonial times. 64. Hyland, The Jesuit and the Incas. See also Hyland’s commentary and new English edition of Blas Valera’s Relación in her Gods of the Andes. For a different opinion on authorship see Deeds, “De las costumbres antiguas de los naturales del

notes to pages 39–41  287 Pirú,” 170–73. In the following discussion I follow the convention of attributing the anonymous account to Blas Valera. 65. According to him, the ychuri was at once a diviner and a confessor whose primary task was to uncover what the confessant wanted to conceal. Blas Valera stressed that indigenous confessions took place along a river. The confessor clutched a bundle of straw in his right hand and held a small stone in his left. After he admonished the confessant to tell the truth, the interrogation of sins began. In order of seriousness, they were adoring a god outside the Inca pantheon, slandering someone, lying in front of a justice, and finally shunning public festivities or sacrifices, failing to provide objects for the sacrifice, disobeying the Vilaoma, killing someone outside of war, raping a woman, stealing potatoes, committing treason, lying, being lazy during harvest season, refusing to participate in public duties, and committing adultery, fornication, or sodomy. See Valera, Relación, 71–77. The idea that the indigenous canon of sin resembled the Christian commandments and ultimately the law of nature can also be found in Meléndez, Tesoro de los indios, 1:355: “observaron muchos puntos de la ley natural, prohibiendo los hurtos, los adulterios, los homicidios, y otros pecados no alcanzaron la malicia otros vicios.” 66. See Hyland, The Jesuit and the Incas, 82. 67. Further evidence for the assumption that this Andean notion of sickness mirrors in fact an Andean belief is provided in chapters 3 and 6. There we will see that the visitators’ observations of certain rituals bore the same features as this Inca account described in more detail. See also Álvarez, De las costumbres, 102; and Condor-­ Chava, Idolatrías de los indios wancas, 651–67. Traditional healers in modern-­day Cuzco and Bolivia still believe that certain sicknesses are tied to both huaca worship and to sin. The first question the twenty-­first-­century altomisayuq asks his patient is “¿Que has hecho?” (What have you done?) (personal communication with Jorge Flores Ochoa, Cuzco, August 2006). See also Ricard Lanata, Ladrones de sombra, 167–89. 68. Molina, “Relación,” 73–80. 69. Molina, “Relación,” 74. 70. Molina, “Relación,” 76: “que no estuviesen enfermos y no entrasen las enfermedades en aquella casa.” 71. Molina, “Relación,” 80. 72. Molina, “Relación,” 87, 88: “ama honco chispa ama nana chispa.” 73. Molina, “Relación,” 92, 93 (“Chikamanta hatunmanta nak’asya watusqa umusqamanta”). On other elements involved in this ritual see González Holguín, Vocabu­ lario, 352: “un árbol que su fruta como chochos es purga.” See also Zuidema, “El puente del río Apurímac,” 322–34; and Zuidema, “The Lion in the City,” 222. 74. On Acosta’s biography, see Marzal, “Acosta, José de,” 11–15; and, for example, Torres Saldamando, Los antiguos jesuitas del Perú, 1–19; Burgaleta, José de Acosta; and Rodríguez Carracido, El P. José de Acosta. Martín’s “The Peruvian Indian through Jesuit Eyes” is inadequate. 75. Even though it was prohibited for a Catholic priest to break the seal of the confession, the practice often looked different. The priest Bartolomé Álvarez, for example, openly admitted to sometimes being “forced” to break the seal of the confession so as to make Indians confess (Álvarez, De las costumbres, 206). On the difficulties of priests adhering to the seal of the confession, see also Peña Montenegro, Itinerario para párrocos, 2:119–21.

288  notes to pages 41–42 76. Acosta, De procuranda indorum salute, 2:429. In 1609 the Jesuit González Holguín deemed it necessary to introduce a new Spanish translation for an already-­ existing Quechua term, hampini, which he translated as “to heal the soul from sins with the sacraments”—indirectly suggesting that the Quechua-­speaking Indians had their own idea of redemption from sin. González Holguín, Vocabulario, 145: “curar el alma de sus pecados con los sacramentos.” This obviously reflected Acosta’s idea of healing through the sacraments and not the original Quechua meaning, since in Santo Tomás’s and Blas Valera’s dictionaries, hampi simply denoted healing or poisoning of the body. But tellingly, González Holguín offered this translation only in the Quechua-­Spanish part of his dictionary, where missionaries would find it when seeking to understand what an Indian said to them, and not in the Spanish-­Quechua section, where they would turn before speaking to an Indian. González Holguín likely assumed that when a Quechua-­speaking person said hampini, he or she was asking something of a Jesuit—seeking redemption by a sacrament—not offering a description. 77. See Carta annua 1606, Provincia Peruana, Sedes S. Iacobi, 194–95. 78. See also the depiction of a Jesuit taking confession of an Inca noble (1613–20) reproduced and discussed in Torres della Pina, Mestizo del renacimiento al barroco andino, 24–6. 79. Acosta, De procuranda indorum salute, 2:425: “la única esperanza de salvación para los indios.” 80. Acosta had prevailed in his argument against Fray Francisco de la Cruz, who suggested abandoning confession as a means of salvation. The Dominican missionary was convinced that the Indians were so terrified by the devil and their fear of priests that they would not confess to all the deeds they had committed. Acosta disagreed vehemently, insisting that the confessor’s penance was a ray of light in the darkness into which the indigenous people had fallen. Other priests, though much less radical than de la Cruz, echoed him in emphasizing that attending Mass was more important than going into the confessional (Acosta, De procuranda indorum salute, 2:444n155). See also Pablo del Prado’s Directorio espiritual en la lengua espa­ ñola y quichua general del inga (Lima, 1641), reprinted (in part) in Taylor, Sermones y ejemplos, 15–40. It is worth noting that Acosta was on the jury in the trial against Fray Francisco de la Cruz, which began on January 29, 1572. AHN, Inquisición, Tribunal de Lima, leg. 1650, Fray Francisco de la Cruz 1575, pt. 4 of vol. 3. Acosta considered de la Cruz’s many other statements to be incredible (Lutheran) heresies. See Medina, Inquisición de Lima, 63–115, drawing on AHN, Inquisición, Tribunal de Lima, leg. 1650, pt. 4 of vol. 3, “La sentencia del proceso contra Fr. Francisco de la Cruz, año 1578.” The phrasing of Fray de la Cruz’s condemnation resembled the last sentence of Pope Leo X’s bull condemning Martin Luther, “Exsurge Domine” (June 15, 1520). See Denzinger and Hünermann (hereafter DH), no. 1492. 81. Acosta, De procuranda indorum salute, 2:443: “Cómo no ver aquí que el miedo a la muerte supera el miedo al párroco?” 82. In the tradition of the Catholic Church and the church fathers, sickness was a result of humanity’s original sin, not an individual’s sin. On the New Testament notion of sickness as antagonism to God’s creation, see Rom. 8:20; as exhortation, see 2 Cor. 4:17 and 12:7; and as a result of sin, see John 5:14 and 1 Cor. 11:30. While

notes to pages 42–43  289 Jesus’ healing was associated with the forgiveness of sins (John 5:1–15; Mark 2:1–12), it occurred without his charging the sufferer with having committed sins; see Matt. 20:32; Mark 3:3, 8:23, 10:49; Luke 6:8, 14:3, 18:40; and John 5:6. Sickness was not measurable against the extent of a person’s sin (John 9:1–41). 83. Acosta, De procuranda indorum salute, 2:423. 84. See also Pérez Bocanegra, Ritual formulario, 90: “Lo primero, acuerdese el Confessor, que juntamente es persona que juzga, y medico y que es ministro constituido por Dios.” 85. Acosta, De procuranda indorum salute, 2:423: “es además medicina presente para enfermedades mortales, es purificación eficaz de la lepra declarada.” 86. Depictions of Ignacio de Loyola and his precious book were found in many erudite households of Cuzco, Lima, Julí, and Huamanga. See ADC, Colegio de ciencias, lib. VII, 32, Inventario de la hacienda Paucarbama, Quispicanchis, expropiedad del Marques de Berriosabal, 1848. On representations possessed by Jesuits, see ADC, Colegio de ciencias, leg. 6, 1768–69; see also the Jesuit churches in Julí, Huamanga, Cuzco, Lima, and elsewhere. Of course, San Francisco de Xavier was depicted or crafted in wood almost as often. 87. A day in the life of a Jesuit in Peru was heavily regulated. On the Jesuit rules in force in Peru, see, for example, AGNL, caja 66: Colegio de los jesuitas en Cuzco: Ordenancias de 1632. These rules prohibited Indians from entering Jesuit offices and forbade the Jesuits to talk to Spanish women in the church unless hearing their confessions. Jesuits were not allowed to take the pulse of women or touch them for any other reason. The members of the order could not stay overnight in an indigenous village without a proper license, visit nuns, admit merchants to their houses, or accept gifts of sweets, chicha, or any other kind of food. Jesuits were admonished to pay special heed in all-­black parishes. They were to avoid teaching dances. In general, the day of a Jesuit was scheduled for every hour. He awakened at five in the morning and attended Mass at six. At 10 a.m. the congregation gathered for the contemptus mundi, and at 11 a.m. an examen took place. From 11 a.m. to 1 p.m., Jesuits were to spend their time in their community. At 2 p.m. spiritual exercises were followed by a prayer to the Virgin Mary. At 3 p.m. a “liçion de velas” took place, and from 4 to 5 p.m. the Jesuits prayed the rosary. The Jesuits were to prepare their prayers from 6 to 6:30 p.m., when they attended service in the chapel. At 7:15 p.m. it was time for the litany. The day concluded with a meditation at 9 p.m. See also Vega, Historia del colegio, 85–87. 88. Ignatius, The Spiritual Exercises, 59. To this day the small chapel of the former Colegio de la Transfiguración in Cuzco houses eight confessionals. 89. Prado, Directorio espiritual, 166v–168r. 90. He cautioned his fellow brethren: “And when the hour to hear confessions has come, one has to pay the greatest attention: the priest has to question the penitent about all these superstitions, one by one if appropriate; if the penitent then confesses to them, one has to teach him and make him afraid.” Acosta, De procuranda idorum salute, 2:271. 91. Carta annua 1603, Collegium Quitense, 224. 92. On the Jesuit belief in the power of images, see, for example, the annual letter from the colegio in Huamanga in 1606: “Because of a picture that depicts the eternal

290  notes to pages 43–44 martyrdom of the condemned people, the Indians were emotionally stirred to such a degree that they immediately confessed their evil deeds in confessions” (218). See also Arriaga’s Extirpación. 93. Bertonio, Confessionario, 198–227. 94. AGI, Lima 301 (Concepción de Chupas, 1614). 95. Reprinted in Duviols, Procesos y visitas de idolatrías, 715–19. 96. This second book seems to have circulated widely among the clergy of the Altiplano, who launched new campaigns to persecute hechizeros in the 1660s. See Saignes, “Idolâtrie sans extirpateur,” 711–31. 97. Arriaga, Extirpación, 7. 98. Avendaño, “Relación de las idolatrías,” 715–19. Avendaño reported, “The priest himself sat down and the penitent brought mullu, which is a ground shell of some sort [in most instances Spondylus princeps] and paria, which are certain carmine powders, and green llaxa [green maize leaves], coca leaves, an herb, and sancu or parpa that are little maize cakes, and fat of the sheep from these lands, and chicha. The confessor took these powders and arranged them on a black stone like pieces of a chess game, and then the penitent said, “Mountains from around, the lowlands, the flying condors, the eagle owls, the screech owls hear me, I want to confess my sins.” And then they confessed if they had stolen something, if they had more than one woman, if they had killed someone, and, in many provinces, they accused themselves of having cautiously approached the things of the church [Christianity]. After they finished confessing, the minister of idolatry admonished the penitents that they should improve morally and that they should approach their huacas with honesty. Then, the minister gave the penitents the stone with the powders for the penitents to blow off in offering to the sun or the huacas. In other provinces, they washed themselves in the river, thinking that the water would wash away their sins, and they would burn the maize cakes and they would pour the chicha while offering it to the idol; and the priests of the idolatries used to invent punishments according to their opinion, and feasts; those confessions they used in case of sicknesses and in other matters.” Avendaño, “Relación de las idolatrías,” 716. 99. Ibid. 100. Gisbert has suggested that the indigenous scenes reminded the onlookers of the Taki Onkoy (in the late 1560s). It cannot be verified whether the painter indeed made such a conscious reference to a historic event from a hundred years before. More plausible is that the painter referred to more basic Andean customs, to offerings of qeros to an ychuri or performing ritualistic dances. Both of these activities seemed to have been widespread throughout the seventeenth century. 101. On the importance of flutes in pre-­Columbian cultures (such as the Chimú, Mochica, Nazca), see, for example, Museo Larco, 232–39. Hernández Príncipe referred to Andeans sacrificing their trumpets (see Arriaga, Extirpación, 102). In the Chavín culture, strombus shell trumpets were associated with figures whom archaeologists identify as priests or “shamans” (see Burger, “The Sacred Center of Chavín de Huántar,” 265–79). For the playing of music as sinful act, see Relación de los agus­ tinos, 41. In some central Andean rituals, religious specialists continued to use drums during colonial times (see AAL, sección hechizerías, leg. 4, 9 [Ambar, 1672]; and Duviols, Procesos y visitas de idolatrías, 179). On other Spanish attitudes see, for example, on Franciscan views, Oré, Rituale, seu manuale Peruanum; Heras, Aporte

notes to page 45  291 de los franciscanos a la evangelización del Perú; and Heras, “Bio-­bibliográfico de Luis Oré,” 173–92. For the use of music, see Parejas, “La influencia centroeuropea en Chiquitos,” 139–46; Querejazu, Las misiones jesuíticas de Chiquitos; and also Villarejo, Los agustinos en el Peru. 102. See among those treatises already mentioned and those listed below; also Bertonio, Confessionario (1612 [2003]). 103. Tercero cathecismo, 564–81, esp. 570. The Spanish text says “mochar.” In González Holguín’s Quechua section “muchay” was translated as “to give a kiss out of honesty” (Vocabulario, 431). The hechizero here was called in Quechua “umu” and in Aymara “layca.” According to González Holguín “umu” (umo or humu) was a “mágico hechizero,” suggesting that the umu was the deftest hechizero (Vocabulario, in the Spanish-­Quechua translation, 578). In the Quechua-­Spanish translation, umu is simply translated as “hechizero” (355). According to Bertonio layca was “hechicero o hechicera. Tuacan laica: hechicero de oficio, catedratico en el arte” (Bertonio, Vo­ cabulario, 586). Umu was also used in sermon 19 directed against hechizeros (Tercero cathecismo, 564–81). In Bertonio’s Confessionario muy copioso in Aymara, layca was the standard terminology (70). Gonzáles Holguín translated llallahua with “maçorca seca de mayz” (Vocabulario, 251). In Polo de Ondegardo’s “Instrucción contra las ceremonias,” llallahua is characterized as a potato of unusual form (255). In the Quechua text it reads “llallahuacta.” This word was possibly derived from yaya (father) and can be translated as “on the side of the father.” I thank José Carlos Fajardo for this suggestion. In modern Quechua pirva or pirhua is like an almacén, a storage place (usually for grain). Gonzáles Holguín translated it with “la trox de chaclla, o cañas embarrada [sic],” (a piece of cane to cover roofs or dirty canes; see González Holguín, Vocabu­ lario, 287 and 90). In the Spanish text, the original pirva was directly taken from the Aymara text; compare Valera, Relación, 149: “El templo del planeta [Coricancha] llamado Pirva estaba todo adornado de flores, de mieses, de luces y manera de lámparas, porque el ídolo hecho en su memoria, tenia siempre en la mano ramilletes nuevos ó manojos de mieses.” It is interesting to see that the Third Lima Council followed Polo de Ondegardo instead of Blas Valera, perhaps because of the internal Jesuit feuds concerning Blas Valera. González Holguín (Vocabulario, 166) translated huacanqui with “unas yervas, o chinitas señaladas de la naturaleza, o otras cosas assi con que engañan los hechizeros y los dan por hechizos de amores.” (On the huacanqui see also chapter 7.) In the Quechua text, the word in inflection is upiassac, thus derived from upyay, bever, drinking (Tercero cathecismo, 570). 104. Tercero cathecismo, 572. The Quechua word is piñacu, and according to Santo Tomás, piñac meant enojado. Likewise, in González Holguín, piñacu was “to get furious.” 105. The Spanish text reads soplar and chupar; the Quechua text, properly inflected, has pucuchicunquichicchu and chomcachicunquichicchu: “Did you allow him to blow at you?” “Did you allow him to suck you?” Curiously, Santo Tomás does not mention the roots of these words, while Gonzáles Holguín translates chhum­ cani or succuni as chupar (Vocabulario, 120). Today’s Quechua use pukuy to mean soplar, but González Holguín attaches several meanings to that word in the Spanish-­ Quechua section: for example, “soplar fuego encenderlo, soplar candela apagarla, soplar quitar polvo, soplar en el ojo limpiarle” (Vocabulario, 673). The Quechua-­ Spanish section offers no Quechua word for soplar. In this context, it is interesting

292  notes to pages 46–47 that Gonzáles Holguín translated the Quechua word ppecuna as “canuto para soplar” and linked it with “pocconi, engordar o criarse con deleytes y buena vida” (Vocabu­ lario, 292, 294, 673). 106. In Rituale, seu Manuale Peruanum, Oré simply asked, “¿As encomendadote a algun hechizero para algun effecto?” (142). 107. Mannheim, “Pérez Bocanegra,” 516–19. See in particular Harrison, “The Theology of Concupiscence,” 135–49; and Harrison, “Pérez Bocanegra’s Ritual Formulario,” 266–93. Forbidden superstitions included, according to Betanzos, dancing or singing because of sickness, believing in the portentous meaning of dream figures, using a certain kind of white maize to rub the body of a sick person, conducting ceremonies that involved chicha on the beginning of a journey, consulting an hechizero for any reason, rubbing a sick person’s body with a guinea pig and dried ají, bathing in chicha, and believing that sickness could be cured by these means. Selection from Pérez Bocanegra, Ritual formulario, 126–139 (the wrong pagination starts with page 146) and in Quechua, 145–161. 108. Pérez Bocanegra, Ritual formulario, 139. Pérez Bocanegra saw it fit to ask the penitent, for example, “If you celebrate a feast, do you hang yarn around your neck in which the thread is twisted in reverse manner so as to repel the demon to prevent your son from falling in disgrace? Did you adore the stars, believing that this will bring rain and fertility for the coming year? When you finish weaving a textile, do you heat it and rub it with sancu to prevent sickness from falling on the owner? If you sleep in a cave, do you chew coca? Do you carry stones, hairs, and hairs of an eyebrow along with you? If you arrive at the apachetas [stone mounts] do you praise mother earth? Did you stay awake all night at the light of a candle to adore your huacas after having finished the harvest of coca? If any place was struck by lightning, did you then go there and give this place food to eat? Have you put fat next to your chests of coca or of garlic or anything that you want to sell so that your sale may improve? Have you taught hechizerías? Are you a diviner? Do you choose a particular day to walk, or to get married? Did you denounce healers and hechizeros to the priest?” See Pérez Bocanegra, Ritual formulario, 126–39. 109. Villagómez thought that Christianity had been disseminated through the Andes for two or three generations and therefore thought a priest should be told, “First you have to ask whether you know or whether you have seen, heard say, or understood by any means that some male or female Indian or anyone of them are of have been heretics or have believed or voiced any kind of heresy or have sewn errors.” He thus applied the category of heresy explicitly to Indians. On the effects of this shift in perception see chapter 4. Villagómez, Carta pastoral, 71. 110. See, for example, Confessionario para los curas de indios (1585), 208–10

Chapter two 1. On (re)education of religious specialists see chapter 4. Within this context, we also have to take into account the reeducation of the sons of caciques. In 1618, the Colegio San Bernardo, a school for the sons of the local Indian lords, was opened in Lima with the purpose of destroying indigenous idolatries and preparing sons of lords for rulership. Three years later, the Colegio Francisco de Borja, with the same purpose, was opened in Cuzco. See Alaperrine-­Bouyer, La educación de las élites indígenas.

notes to pages 47–49  293 2. These campaigns have been thoroughly studied by Mills in Idolatry and Its Enemies and Duviols in La lutte contre les religions autochtones; they will be discussed in more detail in chapter 4. For a recent historiographic overview, see Puente Luna, Los curacas hechiceros. 3. When Toledo was on his voyage to Peru, he was accompanied by the person who would become the first inquisitor of Peru, Serván de Cerezuela. One of Toledo’s first political actions was to officially set up the Inquisition of Lima. Still, in 1572 the viceroy regretted that Philip II had clipped the wings of the Inquisition by exempting Indians from its jurisdiction. Toledo’s opinion of Philip’s ordinance is evident in the instructions that he issued in Cuzco. In 1575, the inquisitors also tried to expand their power to include investigations of the indigenous population. They sent their commissary, Pedro de Quiroga, to Cuzco to act as an inquisitor general of idolatries. But the Jesuit bishop of Cuzco, Sebastián de Lartaún, reacted angrily to this unlawful interference within his realm and jailed the inquisitors’ deputy. In response, the inquisitors imprisoned Lartaún’s representative, Albornoz. This curious power struggle caused Toledo to interfere. He granted the Inquisition the right to prosecute indigenous idolatries, a privilege that ran contrary to King Philip’s founding order of the Inquisition in 1569. In 1571, and again in 1575, King Philip issued once more explicitly that the Inquisition was not allowed to prosecute “indios.” In general, the members of the church were to castigate indigenous people. Civil institutions were to prosecute hechizeros only in case of evil sorcery. See Recopilación de leyes de los reynos de las Indias, 1:166, libro 1, título 19, ley 17, and 2:197, libro 6, título 1, ley 35. See also Guibovich Pérez, “Proyecto colonial y control ideológico,” 109–26; Millones, Retorno de las huacas, 22; Guibovich Pérez, “Nota preliminar,” 32; Céspedes del Castillo, América Hispánica, 6, 241; and Benton, “Legal Regime of the South Atlantic World,” 27–56. 4. In the following I cite from Markham’s edition of Sarmiento: Sarmiento, His­ tory, 12. For a more recent introduction, see Bauer and Smiths’s edition of Pedro Sarmiento de Gamboa, The History of the Incas. 5. Even though Pietschmann marveled at Sarmiento’s interest in astrology, his introduction to Sarmiento is still the best: Pietschmann, La “Historia Indica” de Pedro Sarmiento de Gamboa. For further basic accounts see Clissold, Conquistador; and Benites, “Con la lanza y con la pluma.” 6. This frontispiece is reprinted in Markham’s edition of Sarmiento’s History. 7. Pietschmann, Historia Indica, 15. 8. This event has often been recounted. For a vivid telling, see Hemming, Con­ quest of the Incas, 442–50. 9. Vargas Ugarte, Historia general 2:73, 237. For a contemporary Spanish perception of the Chiriguanos, see Balthasar de Obando, Libro que el Rmo. Fray Balthasar de Obando compuso, siendo obispo de la ziudad [sic] imperial del Rno. de Chile reli­ gioso del Convento de Sto. Domingo. Año de 1605: “Chirriguanas, que come carne humana” (n.p.). On the Vilcabamba resistance, see also Guillén Guillén, Ensayos de historia andina, vol. 2. 10. Egaña, Monumenta Peruana (hereafter MP), 1:505, April 27, 1572. 11. Ibid. Acosta’s influence on the Jesuit province in Peru is also documented in Anello Oliva, Historia del reino y provincias del Perú (ca. 1608–31 [1989]). 12. To understand Spanish choices of how to deal with indigenous hechizeros,

294  notes to pages 49–51 we must take into consideration three factors: their intellectual framework, which reached back to antiquity; the power play between political authorities in the country; and Andean reactions to the Spanish conquest and how Spaniards, in turn, responded to those reactions. 13. Molina, “Relación,” 129–34. Though he wrote the report almost ten years after the events described, it conveys his continuing unease. He was then living in Cuzco, serving as a priest in the church of Nuestra Señora de los Remedios under the Jesuit bishop Sebastián de Lartaún. Molina was highly knowledgeable about indigenous matters and fluent in Quechua. Basic information on Molina is provided by Porras Barrenechea, Los cronistas del Perú; for more details, see Urbano’s introduction to Molina, “Relación,” 9–43. Scholars disagree about the dates of the movement. Pierre Duviols argues that the Taki Onkoy did not take place before the year 1568; Urbano and Millones believe that it began in 1565. It seems that these events began in Parinacochas and then shifted toward colonial Huamanga. 14. Molina, “Relación,” 129. By 1568, the rumors had already spread to the north. See Zevallos Quiñones, “La visita de Ferreñafe (Lambayeque) in 1568,” 165. 15. The Quechua term “Taki Onkoy” is often translated “una enfermedad de bailes” (dancing sickness) or “baile de la desesperación” (dance of desperation, song of sickness) (see Millones, Retorno de las huacas, 14). Gonzáles Holguín, in his Vo­ cabulario, translated taquini or taquicuni with “cantar solo sin baylar o cantando baylar” (singing with or without dancing) (338) and onccoy with “enfermedad” (265). Various interpretations of the Taki Onkoy are given in Millones, Mesianismo e ido­ latría, 5–21; Yaranga Valderrama, “Taki Onqo ou la vision des vaincus,” 119–79; Varón Gabai, “El Taki Onqoy: Las raíces andinas de un fenómeno colonial,” 331–405; Flores Galindo, Buscando un inca, 50; Curatola, “Mito y milenarismo en los Andes”, 65–92; Stern, “El Taki Onqoy y la sociedad andina,” 49–77; and Burga, Nacimiento de una utopía. 16. Historians have long debated whether the Taki Onkoy was part of a planned Inca insurrection in the Vilcabamba. Zuidema argues that it was a pachacuti (turnover) aiming at reconstructing the Inca empire; Wachtel, Duviols, and Varón Gabai interpret the movement as messianic; and according to Stern, the Taki Onkoy was a response to ruthless Spanish economic exploitation. For a summary of the different interpretations, see Cavero, Los dioses vencidos, 28–34. I analyze various aspects of the movement’s beliefs throughout this book: Taki Onkoy’s political impact on Spaniards (this chapter), the idea of transformation (chapter 3), and the symbolic meaning of fat to the colonial Andeans (chapter 4). 17. On the Inkarrí, the belief in the return of the last Inca and the restoration of his regime, see Gow, “The Roles of Christ and Inkarrí in Andean Religion,” 279–98; Pease, Los últimos Incas del Cuzco; and Silverman and Proulx, “Representación gráfica del mito Inkarrí,” 59–71. 18. See Millones, “Albornoz,” 21–25; Guibovich Pérez, “Cristóbal de Albornoz y el Taki Onqoy,” 205–36. 19. See Albornoz, Información de 1570, 82: “Taqui Ongo, y por otro nombre Aira, y que muchos de los dichos naturales predicavan la dicha seta y dezían que no creyesen en Dios ni en sus mandamyentos, ni adorasen las cruzes ni ymágenes, ni entrasen en las yglesias, y que confesasen con ellos y no con los clérigos, que ayunasen en sus ritos y cerimonias conforme al tiempo de los yngas.” See also, for example, 88, 93.

notes to pages 51–54  295 20. Albornoz, Información de 1584, 296. 21. Albornoz, Información de 1570, 59–165. This is always the answer to question number 9. 22. Ibid., 65: “[he] castigado otros muchos entre los dichos naturales, asi de hechiceros como de agoreros adevinos e personas que con ellos tomavan consejo, como en negocios de matrimonios y incestos en el primero e segundo o otros grados, o otros muchos delitos, reformando los dichos naturales como convenía, en todo lo qual a trabajado y se a ocupado siempre.” 23. Guaman Poma, Nueva corónica, 1:89. 24. We owe much of our knowledge about the Inca religious universe to Molina; see especially Zuidema, The Ceque System of Cuzco. 25. On this aspect of the Taki Onkoy beliefs and on the symbolic meaning of fat in colonial rituals, see chapters 4 and 7. 26. See, for example, in another context, Guaman Poma, Nueva corónica 1:401, 309. According to Guaman Poma, Indians set fire to Christians’ houses and churches. 27. Molina, “Relación,” 130. 28. Guaman Poma, Nueva corónica, 1:209–12; see also chapter 7. 29. Vargas Ugarte, Historia general, 2:186. 30. Levillier, Don Francisco de Toledo. Shortly after Toledo arrived in Peru, he experimented with reducciones, new settlements for Indians. These reducciones aimed at destroying Andean ayllus and separating Indians from their huacas. Some of these experiments failed, but others prospered. See, for example, Echanove, “Origen y evolución de la idea jesuítica de ‘reducciones’ en las misiones del virreinato del Perú,” 95–144, 497–540; and Malaga Medina, “Las reducciones en el Perú,” 141–72. 31. For historical examples, see Brading, “The Incas and the Renaissance,” 1–23. 32. Matienzo, Gobierno del Perú, 17. 33. RAH, Mata Linares, vol. 22, fol. 82. 34. On the mita service during colonial times, see Wachtel, La vision des vaincus. On commerce with coca, see MP, 1:327, Luís López to Fr. Borgia, December 29, 1569. On colonial trade with shells, see Polo de Ondegardo, “Errores,” 39. On ancient and contemporary meanings of shells, see Murra, “El tráfico de mullu en la costa del Pacífico,” 171–81; and Mariscotti de Görlitz, Pachamama, santa tierra. 35. See Toledo’s informaciones (1570–72) in Levillier, Don Francisco de Toledo, 2:3–204. 36. See Toledo’s Información de Yucay (June, 1571), in Levillier, Don Francisco de Toledo, 2:122–77. 37. See Duviols, La lutte contre les religions autochtones, 123–40. Toledo’s law was essentially a reprint of the Second Church Council’s decree no. 107, which recommended that those hechizeros who had been baptized be imprisoned. Toledo added that hechizeros were to enter the workforce. 38. Not only among church dignitaries but also among some lay Spaniards and Creoles, this suspicion lingered until the 1620s and beyond. See Duviols, “La idolatría en cifras,” 78–100. As Duviols shows, in 1619 Viceroy Esquilache referred to a “sect” of hechizeros, which ecclesiastical visitators were to control in the entire viceroyalty (91). 39. AGI, Lima 300 (1571), “ciertos hechizos a su Excelencia para le matar.”

296  notes to pages 54–56 40. Luna had received money that he had been instructed to take to a sick person and his healer. 41. See Toledo, “Visita general,” 179–80, which in a translation reads as follows: “. . . with reference to the apostates and indigenous dogmatizers, because their deeds involve heresies in which secular justices may not interfere, and in which the Holy Inquisition does not want to interfere right now, we stipulate that the ecclesiastic judiciary prosecute the [hechizero] cases in like manner as the Inquisition would deal with apostates; with respect to apostates, when they are found to be of poor understanding or of not having been catechized one has to proceed benignly; but when these [hechizeros] are found to be of good understanding and of having been sufficiently catechized one shall punish them with utmost rigor as much as the laws grant. With regard to the dogmatizers, for the great detriment they produce among those recently converted people and their offenses against the gospel, and even though these dogmatizers are no Christians but infidels, one should and has to proceed against them as far as capital punishment; in the punishment of these dogmatizers the ecclesiastical judges shall proceed until submitting them to the secular arm.” A previous instruction dated March 25, 1571, had already dealt with the great damage the hechizeros caused in the new Christian society. Back then, Toledo still envisioned (regular) punishment and incarceration of hechizeros. See Levillier, Gob­ ernantes del Perú, 3:509–10. See also Duviols, La lutte contre les religions autoch­ tones, 123–40 and 217–21. 42. Toledo, “Visita general,” 179. 43. See Las siete partidas, título 23, leyes 1–3, 3:667–68. See also Corry, Percep­ tions of Magic, 81–84. 44. Ciruelo, Reprobación, 95. 45. Corry, Perceptions of Magic. 46. Millar-­Carvacho, Inquisición y sociedad, 39–77. In practice, civil courts intervened in cases of alleged homicide. Late seventeenth-­century visitation records show that when a death was blamed on hechizerías, the visitators sought help from civil courts or considered simply transferring the case to them. See AAL, sección hechizerías, leg. 3, 3 (Huarmey, 1650); leg. 8, 2 (Chupaca, 1689–94). See chapter 8. 47. Neither the cabildos of Trujillo nor of Cuzco issued special legislation regarding hechizeros. I have consulted the Actas del Cabildo de Trujillo and those of Cuzco. In the wider context of hechizería, Cuzco’s city council forbade medical doctors to practice without a “license.” See Gonzáles Pujana, El libro del Cabildo de la ciudad del Cuzco, 152, of September 9, 1560: “Este día se acordó que por cuanto en esta ciudad hay gran necesidad que el licenciado Pérey, médico, vea y sepa y entienda qué personas curan en esta ciudad sin tener ciencia ni facultad para ello, por que tienen noticia sus mercedes que algunas personas que curan, así de medicina como de cirugía, hacen mucho daño en las curas y matan a los que curan por no lo entender, acordaron que el licenciado Alonso Pérey, médico, a quien le dan facultad y comisión bastante para ello suficientemente y tome razón y cuenta de todo ello y visite a los tales que curan, y mande al que hubiere de curar que cure, y al otro que no cure, y les ponga penas para ello y las ejecute juntamente con uno de los señores alcaldes, que para ello le dan comisión y facultad como mejor pueden y de derecho ha lugar, y lo firmaron.” See also 22–35, 141, and 148.

notes to pages 56–61  297 48. Vargas Ugarte, Concilios Limenses, vol. 1; on the First Council, see 1–93 (particularly decree no. 26). For the Second Council, see 97–257, esp. 213. 49. Rostworowski, “Un supuesto romance aclarado gracias a un caso de hechicería—1547,” 259–65. 50. Duviols cites six other instructions and letters by Francisco Toledo that all document his zeal to persecute and prosecute hechizeros (from the years 1571, 1574, 1578, and 1580). See Duviols, La lutte contre les religions autochtones, 192–94. See Levillier, Gobernantes del Perú, 5:395; Encinas, Cedulario Indiano, 1:49. 51. Guaman Poma, Nueva corónica, 2:345, image 449. 52. On Murúa, see Ossio, “Murúa, Martín de (?–ca. 1620),” 436–41. On the different manuscript versions with respect to rituals see chapter 7. 53. See Duviols, “‘Punchao,’ ídolo mayor del Coricancha,” 156–84. 54. Levillier, Don Francisco de Toledo, 348 (reproducing Tupac Amaru’s speech). 55. Levillier, Don Francisco de Toledo, 343. 56. Duviols hinted at the fact that the bishop of Charcas, Granero de Avalos, in 1582 commented indirectly that some hechizeros had been burnt according to the new legislation, perhaps with reference to an hechizero in Tucumán that was burnt the same year. Other instances are unknown. See Duviols, La lutte contre les reli­ gions autochtones, 194. 57. Duviols, La lutte contre les religions autochtones, 193; Toledo, “Libro de la visita géneral del virrey Don Francisco de Toledo 1570–1575,” 115–216, esp. 179. 58. Pietschmann, “La ‘Historia índica’ de Pedro Sarmiento de Gamboa.” 59. Toribio Medina, Historia del tribunal de la Inquisición de Lima, 1:63–114. Brian Bauer and Jean-­Jacques Decoster follow Pietschmann’s and Medina’s investigations in their new introduction to Sarmiento’s History. See also chapters 4 and 8. 60. Inventory of Loyasa’s belongings in RML, colección 5, Ugarte, 38, 14, fol. 253v: “dos anillos de oro y uno de plata con letras y figuras.” 61. No documents confirm that Sarmiento served Toledo as court astrologer. 62. I quote the English edition by Markham (135). The Spanish version reads similarly. Compare Sarmiento de Gamboa, Historia de los incas, 123: “Antarqui le respondió, después de haberlo pensado bien, que era verdad lo que decían, y que él iría primero allá. Y así dicen que fue por sus artes, y tanteó el camino y vio las islas, gente y riquezas de allá, y retornando dio certidumbre a Tupac Inca.” The edition by Bauer and Smith translates this passage in the following manner: “After thinking about it a great deal, Antarqui told him that what they said was true and that he would go there first. Thus they saw that through his arts he went [there] and explored the route and saw the islands, the people, and their riches, and on returning, he confirmed all of it to Topa Inca” (Sarmiento, History, 152). It seems that Francis Bacon was familiar with Sarmiento’s report on Antarqui: in his New Atlantis (1643), the travelers departed from Peru to ultimately land in Bensalem. 63. I quote from Markham’s edition: Sarmiento, History, 136. 64. From the twelfth century onward, the city of Toledo was famous for its necromancers. Among the many Spanish Christian necromancers were Enrique de Villena (1384–1434) and Eugenio Torralba (1485–1561). The common European notion of necromancy included the invocation of the dead. See Ciruelo, Reprobación, 48: “Es luego la magia o nigromancia aquella arte maldita: con que los malos hombres han concierto

298  notes to pages 61–64 de amistad con el diablo: y procuran de hablar y platicar con el para le demandar algunos secretos que les revele: y para que les da favor y ayuda para alcanfar algunas cosas que ellos dessean.” This notion accords with most European definitions, as, for example, in Binsfeld, Tractatus de confessionibus maleficorum, 404: “Quandoque per mortuorum aliquorum cadaverum apparitionem, vel locutionem aut responsionem: et haec est Necromantia et huius artis professores vocantur Necromantici quoniam incantamentis videntur mortuos resuscitare. . . .” See Torreblanca Villalpando, Daemonologia sive de magia naturali; and Wier, Witches, Devils, and Doc­ tors in the Renaissance, 133. 65. Sarmiento perhaps followed an alternative understanding of necromancy developed by Albertus Magnus, who understood it as the perfection of the art of astrology. See Burnett, Magic and Divination in the Middle Ages, 1–15; and Zambelli, The Speculum Astronomiae and Its Enigma, 241. 66. Pietschmann, “La ‘Historia índica’ de Pedro Sarmiento de Gamboa,” 46. 67. Sarmiento, Historia, 98, 129, with reference to Inca Rocca and Condin Savana. 68. Hemming, Conquest of the Incas. 69. MP, 2:323. 70. Marzal, La utopía posible, 185. The Jesuits finally arrived in Callao on April 10, 1568. 71. MP, 1:247: Father Didacus de Bracamonte reported from Lima on January 21, 1569, that “como la ciudad se començó aficionar tanto a la Compañía y Nuestro Señor les quiso poner admiración y dar expectación de los grandes efectos que por medio della avía de hazer en estos Reinos con eclipsarse el sol la mesma ora que desenbarcamos en el puerto. . . .” 72. MP, 1:247: “y estas dos cosas por todo el Reino están divulgadas e interpretradas por señales que Nuestro Señor quiso dar para disponer las almas, y así se escrivió por diversos desta ciudad a muchas partes, y tanbíen Nuestro Señor nos quiso animar a nosotros como dándonos esperanças que nos quería tomar por instrumentos para ayudar a las almas destos Reinos, que cierto, mirando nuestras miserias e inperfectiones, nos hallábamos muy faltos para tan alta enpresa.” See also Sacchini, Historiae Societatis Jesu, pt. 3, 266. 73. MP, 1:137–38, 222, 373, 407. See also MP, 1:222, Philip II to Francisco Borgia, Madrid, October 11, 1568. 74. MP, 1:373, with respect to Lima. See also Martín, The Intellectual Conquest of Peru. 75. MP, 1:419. See also MP, 1:187 (April 17, 1568); MP, 1:410, 419. 76. MP, 1:410. The three left Lima on October 22, 1570. 77. MP, 1:461, 468. 78. MP, 1:461, 474: carta annua of Bartolomé Hernández from Lima to Joanni de Ovando, April 19, 1572. 79. Key issues in the struggle between the Jesuits and Dominicans included the following: Which order would control the universities of San Marcos and, later on, of Cuzco? Which order would receive the most important indigenous missions—for example, Lake Titicaca? Who would provide staff for the next bishop or archbishop of Lima, Cuzco, Trujillo, Arequipa, or Quito? And last but not least, should conversion efforts follow Bartolomé de las Casas’s model or the still incoherent ideas of

notes to pages 64–65  299 the Jesuits? Already in 1571, Blas Valera had written a furious attack on Las Casas in a document now known as the “Anti-­Las Casas from Yucay.” Other concerns also shaped the two orders’ ongoing competition, which merits further investigation. A similar competition is observable between Dominicans and Augustinians, and between Franciscans and Augustinians. 80. On the early history of San Marcos, see Peña Prado, La fundación de la Uni­ versidad Mayor de San Marcos de Lima. 81. See Armas Asin, “Los comienzos de la Compañía de Jesús en el Perú,” 573–607. 82. MP, 1:324 ff., Luis López to Francisco Borgia, December 29, 1569, esp. 326: “Y ase visto claro que en perseguirnos y levantarnos al Padre Provincial y a mi heregias y acusarnos, y en los pulpitos publicamente dezir lo que les daba gusto, nunca an amainado, aunque todas sus calumnias no tenian fuerza, aun delante de juez apasionado: hasta que an visto que el pueblo, vista su mala intención, no denuestos y oprobrios.” 83. AHN, Inquisición, Tribunal de Lima, leg. 1650, exp. 1; AHN, Inquisición, Tribunal de Lima, leg. 1647, exp. 1. See also Tardieu, Le nouveau David. 84. AHN, Inquisición, Tribunal de Lima, leg. 1650, no. 1. See Medina, Historia de la Inquisición de Lima (1887), 78. 85. Medina, Historia de la Inquisición de Lima (1887), 78. 86. María’s second exorcist and confessor, Fray Francisco de la Cruz and Hieronymus Ruiz de Portillo, were perhaps both informed about María and López’s affair. Yet nobody doubted that she was possessed by a demon. We do not know whether López and Ruiz de Portillo admitted their knowledge to other Jesuits. Around the early 1570s, Rome already wanted to deport López to Spain on the charge that he had illicitly sent 200 ducats to his sisters there. But by the time the letter seeking his deportation arrived in Peru, López had already become rector of the colegio of Cuzco, far from María Pizarro and her demons. Medina, Historia de la Inquisición de Lima, 63–114. 87. Rome repeatedly urged the Jesuit Provincial to send López back to Spain. Somehow, López evaded this fate and remained rector in the College of Cuzco. There, López witnessed the execution of Tupac Amaru, and his distaste for Toledo briefly overshadowed his hatred of the Dominicans. On October 12, 1572, eighteen days after the murder of Tupac Amaru, López wrote a polite yet radical letter to Francis Borgia in Rome. On the one hand, he praised Toledo for successfully ending the Inca regime, alluding to the justice he had finally brought to Peru. Yet on the other hand, he thanked God for having spared the Jesuits. He exclaimed, “The kings of this world destroy us” (MP, 1:489, Cuzco, October 12, 1572). Had Luis López disagreed with Toledo about the appropriateness of killing Tupac Amaru? In fact, Toledo had given the Jesuits Indians as workers for their hacienda, probably in Yucay. But in 1582, Luis López was sent to Spain, where he was to remain imprisoned for four years (AHN, Inquisición, Tribunal de Lima, leg. 1649, exp. 55: Luis López). 88. Outside the trial documents, I could find no information about this network of Dominicans, Jesuits, and Theatines who all took an interest in European-­type erudite magic. See MP, 3:289, where Aquaviva on November 21, 1583, thanked Acosta for not publishing the antics of Luis López. Sarmiento de Gamboa, who was likewise accused, was not cleared of the charges of demonic talismanic astrology. He was banished from the country. Tragically, Fray Francisco de la Cruz was burned.

300  notes to pages 65–68 89. See also MP, 1:629, Mercurianus to Acosta, Rome, April 16, 1574. Acosta received the order: “remediasse lo que fuese menester . . . que se guarde la disciplina de nuestro Instituto, y cada uno se emplee en alcanzar y conservar las virtudes sólidas.” 90. MP, 1:505: “Aora tengo algún alivio por tener con quien communicar despúes de venido el Padre Joseph. . . . Lo que hazemos es llorar y clamar a Dios que embíe remedio como pueda[.]” Due to the internal chaos among the Jesuits in Peru, Rome immediately sent a visitator: Juan de Plaça (MP, 1:568). See also Birckel, “El. P. Miguel de Fuentes,” 5–91. 91. To be sure, the order prior to Acosta had already demonstrated deep concern for the mission to the Indians. López had repeatedly condemned the lazy Spaniards who had invaded the New World and continued to mistreat the Indians, and he sought to extend the Jesuit missions to Cuzco and Charcas. Only in that way, he had argued, could the Jesuits serve God. Indeed, in the wake of the turmoil with Toledo and the Dominicans, the Jesuits began to reinvoke their foundational project: to finally take care of the Indians. But in 1572, their experience with missions to the Indians was still limited. The parish they had developed thus far in Huarochirí was about to fail, the victim of internal disputes over whether to accept it. Their only success was in Cercado and Cuzco. In 1575 Ruiz de Portillo exclaimed: “Indeed, if we have ministers of virtue and zeal, we will have effect; and now everybody is very much animated and determined to engage fully with the Indians” (MP, 1:706). See also Albó, “Jesuitas y culturas indígenas,” 249–308, 395–445. 92. On the Third Council of Lima see, for example, Vargas Ugarte, Historia de la iglesia, 2:42–76; Lisi, El tercer concilio limense; and Durston, Pastoral Quechua, 86–104. 93. Lisi, El tercer concilio limense, 155.

Chapter three 1. There was no Quechua or Aymara term for “Christianity.” 2. González Holguín, Vocabulario, 664; he translated padre as “yaya,” but did not add that “yaya” could also allude to the spiritual father. Bertonio, however, in his Vocabulario Aymara, simply translated cura de almas as “tata, or marcana padrepa” (167) and sacerdote as “tata, tatssa, padre, sacerdote, Diosana lantipa” (388). 3. Modern language use suggests that colonial indigenous people simply resorted to the Spanish, Quechua, or Aymara translation of “father.” 4. See chapter 5; see also Murúa, Historia general, 438; Getty manuscript, fol. 292v. Murúa observed that religious specialists grounded their curses no longer on the curaca but on the priest, and would say that when they heard a goldfinch, the priest would scold them. 5. Diez de Betanzos, Sarmiento de Gamboa, Pachacuti, and the myths of the Huarochirí all attributed either to Inka Yupanqui, Atahualpa, Huascar, or Huayna Capac a (fore)knowledge of the end of the Inca regime. Diez de Betanzos mentioned Pachacuti, who was confronted with a mysterious book. Diez de Betanzos and Sarmiento both referred to a prophecy of the regime’s end that the principal huaca of the Huamachuceños delivered to Atahualpa. Sarmiento reported that a diviner prophesied to Huascar his end. How did they know? Either through a vision, an oracle, an unusual

notes to pages 68–71  301 stellar apparition, or an undefined omen. Thus, chroniclers argued that Inca rulers “knew” since Inca Yupanqui’s times that a major pachacuti (turnover) was to occur. The topos that the Incas—or perhaps even hechizeros—were not able to avert their fate and were powerless against the change arose because the chroniclers wrote after the conquest. According to Polo de Ondegardo, Molina, Murúa, and Guaman Poma, apotropaic magic worked only in a locally confined setting. 6. Pachacuti, “Relación,” 254. The Augustinians of Huamachuco in their relación reported that Huayna Capac was one of the greatest hechizeros, for he initiated the worship of water containers on the mountains (26). The Huarochirí Manuscript also put the camascas, priests known for their farsightedness, in the service of Huayna Capac. 7. Pachacuti, “Relación,” 307. On Pachacuti’s oeuvre, see Szemiñski, Un ku­ raca, un dios y una historia; and Itier, Duviols and Zuidema, “Juan de Santa Cruz Pachacuti-­Yamqui Salcamaygua en debate,” 91–154. 8. In the tales of Pachacuti and of the people of Huarochirí, chests announced the arrival of the Spaniards; in the Huarochirí Manuscript, chapter 14, a fair woman arose from the chest. Examples from colonial times can be seen in the Museo Enrico Poli Bianchi in Lima. Wooden chests were also part of precolonial arts, and examples survive from the Nazca, Wari, and Inca cultures. 9. Guaman Poma, Nueva corónica, image 281, sections 282–85, 1:209–13, 212; Murúa, Historia general, 437–40; and more briefly Polo de Ondegardo, “Errores,” 11–12; and Cieza de León, Crónica, 12. All took notice in particular of the many “agueros” (sign interpreters) in the Andes. In Reprobación (62–63), Ciruelo argued that sign interpretation is a superstitious art because animals would act independently from human beings’ wills. In colonial Quechua, pillpinto was translated “butterfly.” Bertonio in his Aymara dictionary distinguished between three different kinds of butterflies. 10. Pachacuti, “Relación,” 307: “[El Inca] manda hazer una cassa de piedra para esconderse, y despues se esconde en ella tapandose con la misma piedra, y alli muere.” 11. On Inca architecture, see, for example, Protzen, Inca Architecture. 12. For a general account of the history of death in the Andes see Kaulicke, Me­ moria y muerte en el Perú antiguo; and Ramos, Muerte y conversión en los Andes. For the history of mortuary monuments, see Isbell, Mummies and Mortuary Monuments. 13. Sarmiento, History, 51, 55, 61. Sarmiento added that Polo de Ondegardo found Manco Capac as a stone in 1559. See also the “Relación de los adoratorios y huacas del Cusco (ca. 1559)” in Cobo, Historia del nuevo mundo, 2:169–86. 14. On European ontology versus an Andean concept of transformation, see Salomon, “How the Huacas Were: The Language of Substance and Transformation in the Huarochirí Quechua Manuscript,” 7–17. 15. Kolata (The Tiwanaku, 243–50) argues that the expansion of the Tiwanaku was not the end product of a conscious effort to conquer territory. Compare Goldstein, Andean Diaspora. On the formation of the Inca state, see Bauer, The Development of the Inca State. Archaeologists debate whether certain iconographic representations of warfare (such as trophy heads) on ceramics, textiles, and stones allude to actual events, ritual, or propaganda (see Silverman and Proulx, The Nasca, 228–37). In the

302  notes to pages 71–72 case of the Moche, archaeologists agree on their zealous militaristic expansionism; and judging by their iconographic output, they also used propaganda (Bawden, The Moche, 139–68). 16. Burger, Chavin and the Origins of Andean Civilization, and “The Sacred Center of Chavín de Huántar,” 265–79. Evidence also is provided in Tello, “Wira Kocha,” 583–605. 17. Bawden, “The Art of Moche Politics,” 116–30. 18. According to González Holguín (Vocabulario), ucupacha çupaypahnacin signifies “hell” (556) and ucun or ucupicak means “that is what is inside” (349); he translates heaven with “hanakpacha hanan pacha” (469). In Aymara, Bertonio refers to hell as “manquhe o mancca pacha” (272), with manquhe meaning “profundity or profundity of water, the earth or of other things.” (605). Bertonio translates heaven as “alakh” or “aca pacha” (627). See also Relación de los agustinos, 13. This passage alludes to a demon that dives into the water and comes up again. On the difficulties of the translation of the concepts of heaven and hell to an indigenous audience see Bouysee-­ Cassagne and Harris, “Pacha,” 11–59. See also Albó, “Preguntas a las historiadores desde los ritos andinos actuales,” 395–438, which suggests that this distinction is a result of evangelization. Ethnographic evidence that may draw on earlier traditions can be found in, for example, Nuñez del Prado Béjar, “El mundo sobrenatural.” 19. See, for example, Huarochirí Manuscript, chaps. 2, 16, 26, 29, 30. In the following, I cite from the English edition by Salomon and Urioste. 20. Conrad and Demarest, Religion and Empire. On Inca religion see especially Ziólkowski, “Los wakakuna de los Cusqueños,” 269–303. 21. Pease, Los últimos Incas del Cuzco; Rostworowski, Historia del Tahuantin­ suyu; Bauer, The Chanka; Hernández Astete, Los Incas. I cannot here take up local myths and how they dealt with the Inca conquest. For a splendid example, see the myths of the Huarochirí Manuscript. 22. The following sources discuss the figures of Illapa, Catequil, and related entities: Relación de los agustinos, 17; Polo de Ondegardo, “Errores,” 3, 6–7; Molina, “Relación,” 66–67; Sarmiento, History, 101; Murúa, Historia general, 425; Pachacuti, “Relación,” 257 (compare Szemiñski, Un kuraca, un dios, y una historia, 69); Vega, Royal Commentaries, 68; Calancha, Crónica moralizada, 370; and Cobo, Historia del nuevo mundo, 160. Most chroniclers noticed that Illapa was revered under three different names: Chuquilla Catvilla, (Inti)Illapa, and Catequil. The chroniclers considered Illapa/Viracocha a precolonial manifestation of the Holy Trinity. The first insights into this complex issue were offered by Demarest (Viracocha); Ziólkowski (“Los wakakuna de los Cusqueños,” 269–303); Mariscotti de Görlitz (“La posición del Señor de los fenómenos meteorológicos en los panteones regionales,” 207–15); Kolata, Tiwanaku and Its Hinterland, 2:200; and Silverblatt, “Political Memories and Colonizing Symbols,” 174–94. Astonishingly, however, no historian has yet discussed the colonial depiction of Illapa and his resemblance to the Roman Jupiter. 23. D’Altroy, The Incas, 221–23. On Inca religion see Ziólkowski, “Los wakakuna de los cusqueños,” 269–303. 24. For example, Polo de Ondegardo (“Errores,” 38) described the Inca ritual of Hualla Viça, in which symbol-­laden objects were burned in order to weaken the huaca of the enemy. The same information can also be found in Murúa. 25. Pachacuti, “Relación,” 255; Szemiñski, Un kuraca, un dios y una historia, 89;

notes to pages 72–76  303 see also Betanzos, Narrative, chap. 16, 231; Relación de los agustinos, 18; and Yupanqui, Instrucción, 20. 26. Local priests continued their worship of their local huacas under their new lords, while at the same time paying tribute to Inca priests. See Guaman Poma, Nueva corónica, image 280, 1:209: “Los hechizeros que fueron como canónigos en las vacas mayores como Savaciray, Pituciray, Ausancata, Coropona, Surivillca, Quichicalla, todos los volcanes de este reino, servían asalariados y pagados estos hechiceros de los ingas.” 27. Curatola Petrocchi and Ziólkowski, Adivinación y oráculos en el mundo andino antiguo; Curatola Petrocchi, “Adivinación, oráculos y civilización andina,” 223–45; and Gose, “Oracles: Divine Kingship, and Political Representation in the Inka State,” 1–32. 28. In their relación, the Augustinians describe their actions against huacas in 1560–61. See also Acosta, De procuranda indorum salute, 1:259, calling his fellow Jesuits to act cautiously—“todas las imágenes y guacas y demás representaciones plasticas de las supersticiones de los indios que se pueda encontrar, quitárselas a la fuerza y destruirlas a sangre y fuego.” He went on to suggest “destruyendo los monumentos commemorativos de su antigua superstición” (377)—so that the Indians would forget their idols, huacas, and sites of worship. At the same time, the priest was to instruct the Indians in the Christian faith. Acosta disagreed with the Dominican Fray Francisco de la Cruz, who sought a nondestructive persuasive form of Christianization; see Acosta, De procuranda indorum salute, 1:263. During the seventeenth century, Francisco de Ávila, Pablo José de Arriaga, and Pedro de Villagómez were the most outspoken advocates of destroying idols. 29. Various examples can be seen in the museum at Tiwanaku’s archaeological site, in the museum of Pucará, and in the Museo Inca de la Universidad Nacional de San Antonio Abad in Cuzco. 30. Los incas y el antiguo Perú, 287. 31. One of the first churches is San Lucas in Colan near Paita. 32. For the disruptive effects of a new understanding of time, see Le Goff, “Church Time and Merchant Time in the Middle Ages,” 151–67. 33. The first sentence of the Doctrina christiana (1584), 21. 34. MP, 7:76, Rodrigo de Cabredo’s annual letter to Claudio Aquaviva on April 20, 1600. Cabredo reported how an Indian in Cuzco worshipped a huaca because it provided him with llamas. The Jesuits then destroyed the Indian’s house and took possession of the llamas. 35. See various myths in the Huarochirí Manuscript. 36. I will discuss this belief of Andean religious specialists in chapter 4, and the role of fat in colonial Andean rituals in chapters 6 and 7. 37. Molina, “Relación,” 129. 38. Colonial iconography of the destruction of idols followed Medieval and Renaissance art, showing Greek and Roman statues being toppled. Examples can be found today in the Pedro de Osma Museum, Lima, as well as the city’s National Museum. See Museo Pedro de Osma. 39. On the Andean understanding of sickness, see chapter 6; see also Bastien, Healers of the Andes; Tomoeda, “Curanderos urbanos,” 189–98; and Valdizán and Maldonado, La medicina popular peruana.

304  notes to pages 76–79 40. For a modern meaning of apus, see, for example, Condori and Gow, Kay Pacha. 41. On the different ecological and cultural zones in the Andes, see Pulgar Vidal, Geografía del Perú. 42. Flores Ochoa and Núñez del Prado Béjar, Q’ero, el último ayllu inka. 43. Classen, Inca Cosmology and the Human Body; see also Mannheim’s introduction to The Language of the Inka. There is an abundant literature on the conceptual connections between the social organization of an Andean ayllu, language, and the Andean environment; see, for example, Murra, El mundo andino; and Platt, “Espejos y maíz: Temas de la estructura simbólica andina,” 1–30. 44. See, for example, Tavárez, The Invisible War. Related ideas on the role of religion and the “purpose” of rituals, as discussed by Girard (Things Hidden Since the Foundation of the World ), might provide fruitful points of departure. 45. In the European discourse on magic, Catholic authors like Martín Delrío argued that only God had the power to transform any existing entity into something else; for example, Lot’s wife into a pillar of salt (Disquisitionum magicarum libri sex [1640], 141). 46. Relación de los agustinos, 21. 47. Molina, “Relación,” 130–31. 48. Compare this with the Nahua notion of iixiptla and its treatment by Spanish observers as described by Tavárez (The Invisible War, 40–43). 49. Molina, “Relación,” 131. The custom of throwing stones at each other can still be observed during the Chiaraje in the central and southern highlands. 50. Molina, “Relación,” 131: “Y así fue que obo muchos yndios que temblavan y se revolcavan por el suelo y otros tiravan de pedradas como endimoniados, haciendo visajes, y luego reposavan y llegavan a él con temor, y le decían que qué avía y sentía y respondía que la guaca fulana se le avía entrado en el cuerpo.” 51. Molina, “Relación,” 131: “ynbocando a la guaca que aquel representava y decía tenía en el cuerpo, y velando de noche sin dormir.” 52. Molina, “Relación,” 131: “Estos tales endimoniados pedían en los pueblos si avía algunas reliquias de la guacas quemadas y como trajesen algún pedaço de piedra dellas . . . y encima de la piedra deramavan chicha . . . y luego davan boces ynvocando la guaca[.]” 53. The word Amparo, which is not mentioned in González Holguín’s dictionary, has never been translated. 54. See, among others, Institoris and Sprenger, Malleus maleficarum; and Clark, Thinking with Demons. For a similar interpretation as the one given here see Ramos, “Política eclesiástica y la extirpación de la idolatría,” 147–69. For a different reading see Gose, Invaders as Ancestors, 82–117. 55. The parish priest Hernández Príncipe (1578–1638), who also served on visitation campaigns, referred to an Andean belief in a human being’s transformation into an owl. See Arriaga, Extirpación, 99. 56. Sarmiento, History, 135, and 123. 57. Polo de Ondegardo, “Errores,” 29: “como brujos que toman la figura que quieren y van por el ayre en breve tiempo, mucho camino; y ven lo que passa, hablan con el demonio, el qual les responde en ciertas piedras, ó en otras cosas que ellos veneran mucho.” 58. Compare the similar descriptions with respect to necromancers that lose their

notes to pages 79–82  305 conscience and later get interrogated on various things that happen or will happen far away in Ciruelo Reprobación 49; in Castañega’s Tratado, 123–24; and in Ondegardo’s Errores, 29. 59. See, for example, Caro Baroja, Vidas mágicas e Inquisición; Roper, Witch Craze: Terror and Fantasy in Baroque Germany; and Behringer, Witchcraft Perse­ cution in Bavaria. Biblical, Medieval, and Renaissance discussions of transformation and of flying human beings include Revelations 12:14; Augustine, De civitate dei 18, 18; Institoris and Sprenger, Malleus maleficarum, vol. 2, 1:8; and Boccaccio, Decameron 10:9. 60. See especially Porta, Magiae naturalis. 61. See the witness’s accounts in Ginzburg, The Night Battles. 62. That was the standard answer given by the Malleus maleficarum. See also Off. Canon Episcopi 38, 12–39, 14, which denied the possibility of human flight. See Ciruelo, Reprobación, 48–52. 63. Polo de Ondegardo, “Errores,” 29: “lo que passa en otras partes remotas y declarar lo perdido y hurtado.” 64. On the discussion that Murúa in his Galvin Manuscript as well as in the Getty Manuscript diverged in several instances from Polo de Ondegardo, see chapter 7. 65. Murúa added the suspicion of unguents later to the Getty Manuscript. See Murúa, Historia general, 434; or Getty Manuscript, fol. 289r. The section on unguents was not yet in the Galvin Manuscript (see fol. 108r). While reworking the manuscript, Murúa might have used Pedro Ciruelo for his understanding and explanation of how Andean hechizeros could know of something far away. See Ciruelo, Repro­ bación, 29. 66. Huarochirí Manuscript, chapter 14 (in Salomon and Urioste’s edition, 88–90). Compare Taylor, Ritos y tradiciones de Huarochirí. 67. In Salomon and Urioste’s edition of the Huarochirí Manuscript, 89n381. 68. Falcons appear repeatedly in Inca history and Andean culture. Guaman Poma, for example, depicted the Inca warriors in falcon disguise. See also Huarochirí Manuscript, myth no. 26, 128, on Manco Capac’s indi, the prophesying falcon. According to Sarmiento (History, 48), the indi was like a falcon, and his description of how it was kept resembles accounts in European books of falconry (e.g., De arte venandi cum avibus of Frederick II). See also Molina, “Relación,” 104. The falcon, or crested eagle, is also associated with “shamans” or priests in such pre-­Columbian cultures as the Tairona or the Chavín. See, among others, Olsen Bruhns, Ancient South America, 210; and Zuidema, “The Tairona of Ancient Colombia,” 245–58. For the transcultural diffusion of the falcon or eagle, see Wittkower, Allegorie und der Wandel der Sym­ bole, 21–86; unfortunately, he gives no reason for its prevalence. 69. Domingo de Santo Tomás, Lexicon, 114 (in modern pagination, 245). 70. Sarmiento, History, 143: “The Sinchi of the greater part of these provinces of the Antis was Condin Savana, of whom they say that he was a great wizard and enchanter, and they had the belief, and even now they affirm that he could turn himself into different shapes.” Colonial Quechua lacked a proper term for transformation— at least, none was included in the dictionaries by Spanish authors, who perhaps were uneasy with the concept. The only Quechua word that could imply “to make somebody become other” was hamuyachiynin, which the Spanish translated “transfiguración”; González Holguín limits it further to “the transformation of his or her face.”

306  notes to page 82 This is the only evidence in Quechua for an idea of transformation beyond the sense of adopting virtues from another being. On the difficulties of translation of the concept of transubstantiation into Aymara, see Álvarez, De las costumbres, 152. 71. Taylor, “Camay, Camac et Camasca dans le manuscrit quechua de Huarochirí,” 231–44 (reprinted in his Camac, camay y camasca y otros ensayos sobre Huarochirí y Yauyos; compare Duviols, “Camaquen Upani,” 132–45. For a colonial reference to the camaquen, see the 1648 report by the Jesuit Josef de Patiño, who had been priest in Huamanga, reprinted as the addendum to Villagómez’s Carta pastoral, 67–78. In the southern Andes, the related concept was and is enqa; see Flores Ochoa, “Enqa, Enacaychu, illa y Huya Rumi,” 245–62; Ricard Lanata, Ladrones de sombra, 78; and Bolin, Rituals of Respect, 31–43. 72. See also Huarochirí Manuscript, 29, 132–33: every animal has its camaquen in a constellation of the stars. 73. Polo de Ondegardo, “Errores,” 27, 35. Polo de Ondegardo used the terms camasca and soncoyoc interchangeably. 74. Huarochirí Manuscript myth no. 26; here, a camasca transforms the huaca Maca Calla into the head of a falcon. 75. Molina, “Relación,” 62; a camasca is described here as a person that has been struck by lightning and possesses the ability to heal with herbs and make prognostications. The term also refers to people who can kill with herbs; see Polo de Ondegardo, “Errores,” 27, 35. In Polo de Ondegardo’s translation, soncoyoc refers to one who breathes the breath of life into something. On the social status of the different kinds of religious specialists, see also Murúa (Historia general, 434), who reported that those flying hechizeros enjoyed a high social esteem; in contrast, all other hechi­ zeros were of old and low social rank, scorned as superfluous members of society. Last but not least, see Arriaga, Extirpación, chap. 3, 32–41. Today, alto-­misa-­yuq can be translated as “the one who has the most important offering to the gods” or, in a more Catholic parlance, “one who celebrates the most important Mass.” See Ricard Lanata, Ladrones de sombra; and Flores Ochoa, “La missa andina,” 717–27. One who commands a lesser mesa is called a pampa-­misayuq. See also Condori and Gow, Kay Pacha; and compare Nuñez del Prado Béjar, “El mundo sobrenatural,” 57–119. See also Avendaño, La rebelión de los Mallkis. On the yatiri, see Fernández Juárez, “El banquete Aymara,” 155–89, 161. 76. Molina, “Relación,” 64. 77. Polo de Ondegardo, “Errores,” 6, 7, and esp. 31, 34. Even today, in the southern highlands, where lightning is a great threat from October to March, the discharge of electricity is thought to be the primary source of superhuman powers. It was considered promising as well as threatening, because Illapa was also invoked in different Andean regions for water and fertility. In the Inca regime, shells (as symbols for water) were offered on his behalf. See, for example, Rösing, Der Blitz. Ethnographic data on the election of a paqo or an altomisayuq by Apu Ausangate can be found in Condori and Gow, Kay Pacha; and Ricard Lanata, Ladrones de sombra, 91–105, esp. 100. Among the Incas, Illapa in its different manifestations was venerated for water. See Polo de Ondegardo, “Errores,” 15; Relación de los agustinos, 18. This worship was also observed by Jesuit priests (RML, V.U. 50, 3): Copia de una carta que los padres Gregorio de Cisneros y Gabriel Cerrato embiaron al Padre Provincial de la mision de los Condesuyos (November 1606). Polo de Ondegardo (“Errores,”

notes to pages 82–84  307 39) referred to the belief that shells originated from the sea and thus from Mamacocha, who was considered the mother of all waters. The same information appears in Murúa, Historia general, 425. On Inca concepts about water and the cosmological water cycle, including the Milky Way, see Zuidema, “El ushnu,” 317–62, and “The Lion in the City,” 39–100. Ethnohistorical evidence for this belief is given in Randall, “Los dos vasos,” 73–112, and “Qoyllur Rit’i,” 37–81; for the Q’uero myth on Mar Qocha, see Müller and Müller-­Herborn, Kinder der Mitte, 106. The literature on the value of shells in Andean cultures is abundant. See Cordy-­Collins, “Blood and the Moon Priestess,” 35–55; and especially Murra, “El tráfico de mullu en la costa del Pacífico,” 171–81. 78. This notion of camascas, conveyed in the Huarochirí myth, is tied to the inti (or indi) in Sarmiento. 79. Polo de Ondegardo (“Errores,” 35) characterized camascas and soncoyocs as healers. 80. These are abilities of Molina’s Taki Onkoy priests, whom I equate to camascas. 81. Polo de Ondegardo, “Errores,” 31, 34. 82. On the election via a life-­threatening situation, see Arriaga, Extirpación, chap. 3, 36; and Molina, “Relación,” 64. Via instruction in dreams, see Polo de Ondegardo, “Errores,” 31; via calling by a huaca, see Relación de los agustinos, 13; and via instruction by a respected teacher, see, for example, AAL, sección hechizerías, leg. 2, 5 (Yaután, 1646); leg. 5, 11 (Laraos, 1665). Special powers of twins are mentioned in the Huarochirí Manuscript, supplement 2, 151–53; Arriaga, Extirpación, chap. 6, 56; Relación de los Agustinos, 29; Álvarez, De las costumbres, 119–20; and Guaman Poma, Nueva corónica, image 276, 1:205. For comments on the superior powers of those born with physical abnormalities, see the Relación de los agustinos, 23; and the Huarochirí Manuscript, supplement 2, 151–53. 83. See, for example, Murúa, Historia general, 425. 84. ARSI, Perú, vol. 14, fols. 92–124, fol. 101 from Cuzco (1627–28). 85. In Moche iconography and in northern coastal cultures, the owl signifies better sight and activity by night (Donnan, Moche Art and Iconography, 96). The feline symbolism is widespread among the pre-­Columbian Cupisnique, Chavín, and southern Andean cultures such as the Tiwanaku and the Inca. Consider, for example, the symbolic link between felines and so-­called snuff trays and between the ferocious animal and ceremonial knives. Several examples can be found in Young-­ Sánchez, Tiwanaku: Ancestors of the Inca; and Pérez-­Gollán and Gordillo, “Vilca/ Uturuncu,” 95–140. On the symbolic link between human beings and felines see Museo Larco, 58, 64, 66, 128. On feline symbolism in Inca culture, see Tello, “Wira Cocha,” 583–605; and Zuidema, “The Lion in the City,” 183–251. On the transformation of the symbol of felines during colonial times see Museo Larco, 115; and Barnes, “[. . .]: San Cristóbal de Pampachiri,” 183–211. Platt reconnects social crises with puma transformations in his “From the Island’s Point of View,” 33–70. 86. See Reichel-­Dolmatoff, Goldwork and Shamanism; for a different point of view, see Zuidema, “The Tairona of Ancient Colombia,” 245–58. 87. The priests in Chavín (identified by the San Pedro cactus in their hands) are shown with headdresses in the form of feline heads. Similar headdresses adorn humanlike statues of the Tiwanaku, the San Augustín culture in Colombia, and the little figures of Wari-­Pikillaqta. See, among others, Bruhns, Ancient South America,

308  notes to pages 84–88 210; Burger, Chavín and the Origins of Andean Civilization; and almost any volume about ancient civilizations in South America. 88. All regional cultures in the Andes apparently shared the belief that an extraordinary human being’s powers reached their maximum where the powers of a bird ended: with farsightedness, reflecting the transition over time and space, and also with the transformation of some living being into another living being (in contrast to the transformation of a living being into a dead one). 89. Polo de Ondegardo, “Errores,” 32. 90. AGI, Lima 301, Concepción de Chupas (1614), fol. 8r: “salen dos choclos de diferentes colores dizen los dichos hechizeros ques Guaca.” For further information, see chapter 6. 91. Yllas in the context of fertility are mentioned often in visitation protocols. For an indirect testimony on its usage among Andean religious specialists see also Villagómez, Carta pastoral, 57 (question 11). 92. Huarochirí Manuscript, chap. 26, 127–28. 93. Grafton, “Der Magus und seine Geschichte(n),” 1–26. 94. See, for example, Agrippa von Nettesheim, De occulta philosophia; Buck, Die okkulten Wissenschaften in der Renaissance; and Eamon, Science and the Secrets of Nature. 95. For example, Kristeller, Die Philosophie des Marsilio Ficino. 96. See Ricard Lanata, Ladrones de sombra, 146. 97. See Eliade, Shamanism: Archaic Techniques of Ecstasy. 98. Ginzburg, Ecstasies, 158. 99. Sharon, Wizard of the Four Winds: A Shaman’s Story; and Joralemon and Sharon, Sorcery and Shamanism, 165. 100. Torres, “Iconografía Tiwanaku en lo parafernalia inhalatoria de los Andes Centro-­Sur,” 427–54; Zuidema, “El puente del río Apurímac y el origen mítico de la Villca,” 322–34. Within the rich ethnographic literature for Andean and Amazonian cultures, see, for example, Völger and Welck, Rausch und Realität: Drogen im Kulturvergleich; and Iglesias, Hierbas medicinales de los Quichuas del Napo. 101. See chapter 7. Similar behavior in colonial Mexico is described in Sallmann and Gruzinski, Visions indiennes, 132; and in South America, in Métraux, Religions et magies indiennes. 102. Mujica Pinilla, Las plumas del sol y los ángeles de la conquista. 103. Besides Donnan, see also Makowski Hanula, “La figura del ‘oficiante’ en la iconografía mochica,” 52–101; Makowski Hanula, “Los seres radiantes,” 13–114, esp. 69; Lavallée, Les représentations animales; and Huarochirí Manuscript, chap. 20, 105. Depictions also appear in Benson, The Mochica, 17, 53. 104. According to the Trujillo healer Eduardo, the owl invokes the spirits of the ancients, which inhabit the huacas in order to cure witchcraft; the woman’s owl face and her shawl symbolize her mastery of curative herbs. 105. For example, Polo de Ondegardo, “Errores,” 29; AAL, sección hechizerías, leg. 1, 17 (Trujillo/Lima, 1610); and leg. 3, 1 (Yaulí, 1650). For ethnographic and ethnohistorical evidence, see Glass-­Coffin, “El pacto diabólico,” 129–45; Polia Meconi, Las lagunas de los encantos; and Baer, Die Religion der Matsigenka, 206. 106. Lavallée, Les représentations animales, plate 72D. 107. For example, see Alvaro-­Echeverri, “Las practicas populares de adivinación,”

notes to pages 88–89  309 211–34; and Wilbert, “Gaukler Schamanen der Waro,” 294–99. Interestingly enough, people at Lake Titicaca are still proud to possess capes of condor feathers, though their former usage is no longer remembered. 108. See also the symbolic association during Inca times of the Chunchos with feathers, still a common adornment among dancers on the Qoyllur R’iti pilgrimage. 109. Bouysse-­Cassagne, “Plumas: Signos de identidad, signos de poder entre los incas,” 545–65. 110. See the examples in the De Young Museum in San Francisco, in the Völkerkundemuseum of Berlin and Munich, and in the collection of Dumbarton Oaks. See also two exhibition catalogs: Peru durch die Jahrtausende, 357; and Perú indígena y virreinal, 159, 165. 111. Pachacuti, “Relación,” 265, 297. 112. Feest, “The Collecting of American Indian Artifacts in Europe,” 324–60; and Bujok, “Africana und Americana im Ficklerschen Inventar,” 57–142. 113. Betanzos, Narrative, chap. 22, 139. 114. For extant examples of similar figures, see Los incas y el antiguo Perú; and Betanzos, Narrative, 79. In more general terms, see Murúa, Historia general, 422, on the sacrifice of colored feathers. On the use of these little figures in love magic, see chapter 7. 115. Bonavia and Tord, Arte historia del Perú antiguo, 216; and Wari: Arte pre­ colombino peruano. 116. See Molina’s description of Inca festivities, which show particular bird feathers being used in different contexts. The “Vesitación de los yndios de Carmona” (1549), for example, shows that feathers were also a tribute to be paid to the ruling Inca elite (Carvajal and Rodriguez de Huelva, “Vesitación,” 74–80). The symbolic meaning of each species still needs to be analyzed. 117. See Pachacuti, “Relación,” 265, on feathers from the birds Llamantiva and Pillco; Molina, “Relación,” 71, on ceremonies in May in which feathers were used. Even today flowers are dispersed in front of saints and the clergy during Catholic processions in Cuzco, a practice that certainly replicates Inca tradition. 118. On feathered and white dresses, see the Relación de los agustinos, 10 and 15. Furry dresses are referred to by Sarmiento in History (176), describing the Huamachuco priest, and in Relación de los agustinos (28). See the imagery of the Waylla Wisa (or Vallaviza), Atahualpa’s seer, in Lara, Tragedia del fin de Atawallpa; and Guaman Poma, Nueva corónica, image 277, 1:206. Compare the Ukuku dress in the Qoyllur Rit’i; see Randall, “Qoyllur Rit’i,” 37–81. Regular ponchos are mentioned in Guaman Poma’s Nueva corónica (images 99–116, 1:79–92), as well as in a discussion of the Colla hechizeros, and in the Códice Murúa. 119. This association seems to have been—and in certain regions still is—a pan-­ South American feature. See the remains of the Brazilian Amazonian cultures and Andean cultures in modern-­day Ecuador: Les Esprits, l’Or et le Chamane: Musée de l’Or de Colombie; Gyarmati, Clay Shamans and Stone Jaguars; and Bernand, En­ fermedad, daño e ideología, who observes that some still believe that flying witches meet on the Chimborazo. 120. Another way to understand the themes under discussion is to stress the obvious belief among people of the Andes that some people were more farsighted than others: the camascas in the Huarochirí Manuscript as well as in Polo de Onde-

310  notes to pages 90–93 gardo were all said to have divined or, to express the same idea in symbolic language, to have brought a chest with “news.” Thus, birds and flights are also equated to the powers of divination. 121. Frame, “Blood, Fertility, and Transformation: Interwoven Themes in the Paracas Necropolis Embroideries,” 55–92; Lavalle and Lavalle de Cárdenas, Tejidos milenarios del Perú, 187. 122. Burger, Chavin and the Origins of Andean Civilization. An interesting artifact that belongs in the context of camascas, birds, and new life (plants) is now in the Völkerkundemuseum in Munich. This small wooden sculpture from coastal Chimú is in the form of a man (perhaps a priest) adorned with hummingbird feathers, with a plant emerging from his head. Unfortunately, it is not reproduced in the English-­ language catalog. 123. Molina, “Relación,” 56. 124. Huarochirí Manuscript, chap. 2, 47. 125. On appearances of a huaca in the form of a condor, see AAL, sección hechizerías, leg. 3, 9 (Huamantanga, 1650); as another bird, see Pachacuti, “Relación,” 255. The arrival of a huaca in the form of the wind is a common motif, for example, in AAL, sección hechizerías, leg. 8, 2 (Chupaca, 1689–94). The apparition of a fox can be found in Relación de los agustinos, 32. The flying caimans are depicted on the Raimondi Stele from the Chavín culture (now in the Museo Arqueológico, Lima). The Huarochirí Manuscript, chap. 26, 128, referred to a huaca in the form of a human being. Pachacuti (“Relación,” 259) reported on a huaca appearing as the wind. Modern-­day mythology in the Cuzco region retains this belief in the transformation of superior powers. See Itier, El hijo del oso, 125–45. 126. Huarochirí Manuscript, 2, 47. On the endurance of these beliefs during colonial times throughout the Peruvian highlands (best documented for the central Andes, of course), see, for example, AAL, sección hechizerías, leg. 3, 2 (Yaulí, 1650), on wind; and leg. 3, 9 (Huamantanga, 1650), which recounts apparitions in the form of a dog, a fox, and a condor. In these visitation records the apparitions are termed demons, not huacas. 127. Cieza de León (Crónica, 423) tells us how the yungas worshipped a large mushroom as if it were “a divine thing.” 128. For example, Pachacuti, “Relación,” 259. Cieza de León (Crónica, 378–80) also paid close attention to noises in the Andean world, reporting that when a demon (probably a huaca) threw stones, the action sounded like “huhu.” In González Holguín, “enfermar muchas vezes” is translated with an onomatopoetic phrase echoing the wind, “chuchuai chuchuhuhanmi.” 129. For example, AAL, sección hechizerías, leg. 3, 1 (1650, Yaulí); for the northern provinces, see AAT, sección idolatrías, leg. DD-­1-­5 (involving an Indian from Moche, 1771), leg. DD-­1-­3 (Pueblo Nuevo, 1768), leg. DD-­1-­6 (Santiago de Cao, 1771), leg. DD-­ 1-­12 (San Pedro, 1786). These cases are now transcribed in Larco, Más allá de los en­ cantos. To explain the communication of a healer with the wind, Bastien (Healers of the Andes, 16) notes that breath is an important feature in healing rituals; it is tied to air and wind, which are both animating principles of the universe. Ricard Lanata (Ladrones de sombra) shows that for inhabitants of the Cuzco region, wind signifies the animu of the apu visiting the altomisayuq. 130. See also Cobo, Historia del nuevo mundo, 2:169–86; and Cieza de León,

notes to pages 93–96  311 Crónica, 216. Cieza de León described how Indians in Manta, a coastal town south of Quito, worshipped the stone of Manta, “as if a goddess was enclosed in this stone.” On Inca attitudes toward stones see in particular Dean, A Culture of Stone. 131. Pachacuti, “Relación,” 236–40. According to Pachacuti, who equated Inca religious politics with Christian extirpation campaigns, Tunupa’s example was anticipated by Manco Capac and Mayta Capac. 132. See Kolata and Ponce Sanginés, “Tiwanaku: The City at the Center,” 317–33. 133. See also Molina, “Relación,” 53, who attributed the stone transformations in Tiwanaku, Pucaray [sic], and Xauxa to Viracocha. 134. Another question is whether punishment is restricted to the members of their own ayllu or extends to those in any other ayllu. Similar punishment for immoral human behavior is found in Huarochirí Manuscript, chap. 30, 134. 135. Huarochirí Manuscript, chap. 16, 93. 136. Several pieces of evidence indicate that Huallallo Carvincho received only items of little value during worship, such as dogs. It has been suggested that he was worshipped by the Huancas, the enemies of the Incas. And to further complicate the history of Huallallo Carvincho and his possible association with the Huancas, we might recall Santa Cruz’s legend about the couple engaged in sex whose transformation into stone occurred in the same geographic area. Thus, both myths independently associated the Huancas with a less powerful huaca, disobedience, and a general sense of inferiority. This might be the result of an Inca reinterpretation of this myth to help reduce the power of Huancan huacas. 137. For example, Huarochirí Manuscript, chap. 16, 93; Pachacuti, “Relación,” 277; and Guaman Poma, Nueva corónica, 50, 80, 1:40, 58. 138. Huarochirí Manuscript, chap. 16, 93. 139. Aguilar, “Huanacauri o Huaynacauri,” 41–49; Curatola Petrocchi, “Adivinación, oráculos y civilización andina,” 223–45; and Luis A. Pardo, “Huanacauri: El santuario máximo de la incanidad,” 238–53. 140. Sarmiento, History, 51, 55, 61. 141. Molina, “Relación,” 77, 98, 101, 142. I will analyze Pachacuti’s narrative later in this chapter. It depicted “idols” in a dark light, for they served as a foil to discuss pre-­Spanish campaigns by the Incas to extirpate idolatry. Even in the case of the story about the huacanqui—the stones created from the couple having sex—which in practice later helped unite a man with a wife, he obscured any positive consequences. The meaning of huacanquis for the Andeans will be discussed in chapter 7. 143. On the concept of sacred geography, see Reinhard, Machu Picchu; Kolata and Ponce Sanginés, “Tiwanaku: The City at the Center,” 317–33; Bauer, The Sacred Land­ scape; and Cruz, “Huacas olvidadas y cerros santos,” 55–74. A modern ethnographic example for a belief in transformations into stones is provided by Robin Azevedo, “La petrificación,” 219–38. Compare the fact that in the Andes superhuman powers were and are encoded in space with the notion that history was and is also tied to physical localities, as described by Rappaport (The Politics of Memory). 144. The examples discussed in this chapter also suggest that the transformation of something into a stone was associated with punishment by a higher and more powerful being. 145. According to Villagómez, Andean people distinguished between chancas and

312  notes to pages 96–100 conopas, both usually smaller stones (Carta pastoral, 39). On a modern conception of “piedras de compasión,” which the altomisayuqs in the Ausangate region call inqa or inqaychu and consider powerful for the reproduction of their domestic animals, see Ricard Lanata, Ladrones de sombra, 202. 146. See, for example, Platt, “Symétries en miroir,” 1081–1107; Bouysee-­Cassagne, “Urco and Uma, Aymara Concepts of Space,” 201–27; Rivière, “Quadripartition et ideologie,” 41–62; Asvtaldsson, “The Dynamics of Aymara Duality,” 145–74; and other articles in Wachtel, Murra, and Revel, Anthropological History of Andean Polities. 147. Pachacuti, “Relación,” 271. 148. Interview in Cuzco, August 2005. 149. Guaman Poma, Nueva corónica, 114, 1:90. Franklin Pease suggested a transcription that replaces “converción” with “conver[sa]ción” and yields the following: “[Huayna Capac] se huyó de la conver[sa]ción de los hombres y se metió dentro de una piedra; y allí dentro se murió sin que lo supieran.” The question of whether Huayna Capac fled because he knew how the infection was transmitted cannot be conclusively answered. 150. On Pachacuti’s Christianity, see Szemiñski, Un kuraca, un dios y una his­ toria; see also Itier, “Discurso ritual prehispánico y manipulación misionera,” 177–96. 151. For a religious specialist in colonial times bringing positive powers to the foreground, see chapter 7; for a modern-­day example, see Ricard Lanata, Ladrones de sombra, 144: “El chamán es capaz de convocar a su ‘mesa’ a los seres del mundo— otro, y en particular a los apu, que ordenan la naturaleza y pueden, en consecuencia, ayudar al chamán a prever, prevenir y combatir el infortunio.” 152. Given these beliefs, the prospect of Christianization and the attendant destruction of the ancestral home of superhuman forces could generate dreadful fears in the Andean world. 153. The expressions of embodiment are different among the coastal cultures, where stones did not play the same role. 154. Many examples are provided by the Chavín, the Pukara, and the Tiwanaku cultures, fewer by the Wari; the most prominent can be found in Machu Picchu. 155. The meaning of Sacsayhuaman is still debated. 156. For example, Apu Ausangate, Apu Salkantay, Illimani, and Pariacaca. See Randall, “Qoyllur Rit’i,” 63. On the widespread worship of Pariacaca, see Avila, “Relación (1611),” 388. 157. Because of their snow, mountains were also seen as responsible for fertility. Different apus in the Cuzco area—for example, Apu Colquepunku—are believed to provide health (Nuñez del Prado, cited in Randall, “Qoyllur Rit’i,” 43). 158. For example, the Pukllay (Carneval) ceremonies in the Vilcanota range serve to ensure enqa. See Bolin, Rituals of Respect, 40. 159. On the role and function of “analogy” within what anthropologists and others call “shamanic” practices and in what has been identified as premodern or even primitive thought, see the classic literature by Lévi-­Strauss, The Savage Mind (1966); Tambiah, “Form and Meaning of Magical Acts,” 340–75; Vickers, “Analogy Versus Identity,” 95–163; and Ashworth, “Natural History and the Emblematic World View,” 261–302. 160. Polo de Ondegardo, “Errores,” 31.

notes to pages 100–105  313 161. Bastien, “Good Luck Fetishes,” 352–61. However, Bastien asserts that the amulets rely on the principle of analogy for their power. 162. See, for example, Daston and Park, Wonders and the Order of Nature. 163. Pachacuti, “Relación,” 242. For further discussion, see chapter 5. 164. A rare seventeenth-­century example of this belief is found in AAL, sección hechizerías, leg. 1, 4 (Pasco, 1617). An Amerindian confessed that the huaca Jurpalpa had once been a mighty curaca who transformed into a stone. 165. On the idea of reciprocity that underlies Andean mesas, see Fernández Juárez, “El banquete aymara,” 155–89; and Milla Villena, Ayni. 166. An exception is Huarochirí Manuscript, chap. 26, 127–28. 167. In this context, see also Sharon’s studies of the northern healers of the coast, who adhered to the same beliefs. During late colonial times, religious specialists in the north began to focus on warding off evil powers that commoners or religious specialists allegedly provoked with evil sorcery. See also Polia Meconi, Las lagunas de los encantos.

Chapter four 1. Bertonio, Libro de la vida y milagros de nuestro Señor Iesu Christo. On Bertonio’s biography see Albó, “Bertonio, Ludovico,” 81–83. 2. Ibid., 52 (a somewhat liberal translation). 3. Felipe Guaman Poma de Ayala described how the mouth of Anti’s familiar demon was miraculously sealed when Tunupa gloriously arrived on the shores of Lake Titicaca. It had been the fault of Mama Huaco, the mythical first Inca princess, that stones had begun to speak (Nueva corónica 1:96, sections 121–23: “esta dicha señora hacía hablar a las piedras y peñas ídolos huacas”). For the trust in demons communicating through idols in seventeenth-­century Peru, see, for example, Arriaga, Extirpación, 23; and Egaña, Monumenta peruana [MP], 6:708. On contemporary positions in Spain, see Ciruelo, Reprobación, 49. 4. On the historical background of these beliefs, see Fox, Pagans and Christians. 5. See, for example, MP, 7:40 (La provincia del Perú a Luis de Velasco, Virrey, 1600). 6. The Jesuit archive of Santiago de Chile abounds in mortuary letters (composed by the Provincial after a Jesuit’s death), which often mention that a Jesuit withstood demonic seduction. Notable examples include Bautista Egidiano (active in the Colegio de San Martín) and Pedro Julio (active in the Colegio de San Pablo). 7. Jesuits required language skills to teach the gospel to the simple folk and to know the features of the Andean world. See MP, 1:361; MP, 3:94, 366; MP, 7:609; Carta annua 1606, 230–31. 8. See the introduction by Villaría Robles and Martín Rubio in Álvarez, De las costumbres, 15–23. 9. Álvarez, De las costumbres, 128. 10. Relación de los agustinos, 16. Fray Juan de San Pedro added, “o mejor dezir el demonio en ella.” Álvarez, De las costumbres, 75. See Calancha, Crónica moralizada, 370. Interestingly enough, he talks of hechizeros in the past (377–78). 11. Acosta, De procuranda indorum salute, 1:267.

314  notes to pages 106–108 12. It has been suggested that during Inca times, huacas that served as oracles were predominant. See the articles in Curatola Petrocchi and Ziólkowski, Adivina­ ción y oráculos. 13. We do have detailed recordings of religious specialists’ invocations of huacas in Quechua. See, for example, Duviols, Procesos y visitas de idolatrías, 781. But we don’t have documents of the alleged answers of the resonating objects. 14. AAL, sección hechizerías, leg. 4, 13 (San Lorenzo de Quinti, 1660). 15. Ávila, Tratado, preface, fol. 4r. 16. Thomas Aquinas, who was widely read in the Andes, had declared in his Summa contra gentiles, “The alternative is to suppose that such effects [the effects of magicians] are accomplished by the understanding of some person to whom the speech of him, who utters such words is addressed. This supposition has its confirmation in the fact that the expressions which magicians use consist of invocations, entreaties, adjurations, or even commands, as of one person talking with another. . . . Magical arts therefore owe their efficacy to some intelligence to whom the speech of the magician is addressed—as is also shown by the sacrifices, prostrations, and other rites employed, which can be nothing else but signs of reverence paid to some intelligent nature.” Summa contra gentiles of Saint Thomas Aquinas, book 3, cap. 105 (trans. Joseph Rickaby). In the European tradition, concerns about demonology and magic grew out of a concern for the boundaries between good and evil. Most influentially, Augustine, in his De civitate dei, established the connection between magicians and demonically inspired moral evil. The Fourth Lateran Council of 1215 then followed Augustine, among others, in defining demons as authors of everything evil. See also Augustine, De civitate dei, 8:19 and 9:1, 6, 14, and, with respect to theurgy, 9:1, 10. For a very good introduction to medieval positions, see Stoyanov, “Der Magier als Häresiarch,” 27–64. See Fourth Lateran Council, November 11–30, 1215, chap. 1: “De fide catholica” (against Albigenses and Cathari): “Diabolus enim et alii daemones a Deo quidem natura creati sunt boni, sed ipsi per se facti sunt mali. Homo vero diaboli suggestione peccavit” (DH, 800). See also “Venturus in fine saeculi, iudicaturus vivos et mortuos, et redditurus singulis secundum opera sua, tam reprobis quam electis; qui omnes cum suis propriis resurgent corporibus, quae nunc gestant, ut recipiant secundum opera sua, sive bona fuerint sive mala, illi cum diabolo poenam perpetuam, et isti cum Christo gloriam sempiternam” (DH, 801). On medieval perceptions of magic, see Flint, The Rise of Magic, and her information on the role of the book of Enoch in promoting demonology. The book of Enoch was particularly widely studied in Peru; see Mujica Pinilla, Ángeles apócrifos. 17. ARSI, Perú, vol. 19, fol. 7: Memoria para el procurador a Roma, Cuzco 1576. A similar occurrence is related by an Augustinian in the 1690s (ASPF, America Meridionale, 1:334). 18. Delrío, Disquisitionum magicarum libri sex (1640), 80: “Censent Theologi ijdem ad daemoniacam magiam pertinere tria quoque alia vitia. Primum est, si adhibeantur verba ignota, falsa apocrypha, absurda, nihil cohaerentia, aut sacra, sed detorta ad sensus alienos, aut ad quem non sunt instituta, vel si aliqua nomina Dei incognitae significationis, vel etiam bonorum Angelorum ignota, vel malorum Angelorum nomina inserantur, quae non noit Ecclesia, de quibus pererudite disseruit Guilhelmus Parisiensis. Idem erit si adhibeantur certi characteres, aut figurae aliae, praeter signum crucis, vel ipsa crux non ut oportet locata, formataque

notes to pages 108–110  315 vel ubi non oportet posita, vel superflue certis locis, ac numero interata: denique si quid apponatur aliud, nihil pertinens ad effectum, qui tali operatione intenditur.” See also Pereira, De magia; and Caspar Peucer, Commentarius de praecipuis gene­ ribus divinationum. 19. AAL, sección hechizerías, leg. 3, 1 (Yaulí, 1650), and leg. 3, 11 (Yaulí, 1650); AAT, sección idolatrías, leg. DD-­1-­5 (Moche, 1771). The arrival of a huaca in colonial times was often frightening. Modern-­day healers in the Ausangate region still wait for the wind to arrive to heal (Ricard Lanata, Ladrones de sombra, 165). A modern understanding of the many dimensions of Andean music, and sound in general, is excellently provided by Stobart, Music and the Poetics of Production. 20. On conversing with demons through fire, see Guaman Poma, Nueva corónica, 1:205–7; see also chapter 7, this volume. Arriaga (Extirpación, 25) referred to a conversation through an elm tree and noted, “Sometimes, the devil talks to them [the hechizeros] through a stone” (32). The same author refers to communications with the sun (33). On communication with mummies, see Ruiz de Montoya, Conquista espiritual, 131–34; the same example is given by Peña Montenegro, Itinerario para párrocos, 1:489. 21. See, for example, Burger and Salazar, Machu Picchu, 186–87. 22. Botero, Delle cause della grandezza della cittá, 41. 23. MacCormack, On the Wings of Time. 24. Rostworoski, Historia del Tahuantinsuyu. 25. Molina, “Relación,” 60. 26. Ibid. 27. Sarmiento, History, 90. 28. Ibid. 29. On the example from the Wari tradition, see Boone, Andean Art at Dum­ barton Oaks, 1:181. On Molina’s version of the mirror, see MacCormack, Religion in the Andes, 295. 30. In both European ecclesiastical writings and treatises about magic, the use of mirrors became almost synonymous with magic itself, if not with the communication between a magus and a demon. See Flint, The Rise of Magic. In Spain, the Siete partidas already prohibited divination via mirrors (título XXIII, ley I, 3:667). Pedro Ciruelo scorned necromancers who used mirrors to communicate with demons. In 1598, King Philip II was persuaded by his advisers to issue a law prohibiting hechizeros from using mirrors, and magicians from talking to demons. Renaissance scholars such as Agrippa von Nettesheim and John Dee used mirrors and similar objects in order to communicate with angels or good demons. See Harkness, John Dee’s Conversations with Angels, 29. 31. AHN, Inquisición, Tribunal de Lima, leg. 1650, no. 1, testimony of Gaspar de Losada (March 13, 1656). 32. On erudite magi and, in particular, astrologers in Mexico and sometimes their use of mirrors, see AGNM, Inquisición, 314:260–64; 367:268r–272v; 435:589r–v; 303:420–25; 746:428–41; 1525:178–90. 33. There is only scattered evidence on Spanish ritual specialists in Peru who were well versed in European learned magic and likewise stood in contact and exchange with the indigenous population; see, for example, AHN, Inquisición, libro 1027, 280v. 34. On the occasion of the king’s marriage to Mary Tudor, John Dee bestowed on

316  notes to pages 110–114 him an obsidian mirror. The British Museum counts a similar mirror—or perhaps even the very mirror given to Philip II—among its treasures. Philip II regularly consulted his court astrologers and also maintained other interests in the occult sciences. In this respect he was not so different from his uncle, King Rudolf II of Prague, in whose household Philip had been raised as a young boy. Atienza, La cara oculta de Felipe II, 27. 35. Whereas the mirror in Molina’s account broadcasts the very Andean message “I am the Sun and you can rely on my help,” Sarmiento’s mirror shows a map of lands to conquer. Even in the late sixteenth century, the empire of King Philip II depended to a significant extent on the conquest of foreign lands. 36. For an example of a mirror from the Moche culture, see Quilter, Treasures of the Andes, 89. The Wari depicted also a man who uses a mirror to apply his cosmetics, but the more elaborate mirrors that survive today probably had a different function. 37. See the cases transcribed by Larco, Más allá de los encantos. 38. Guaman Poma, Nueva corónica, 1:87. On Inca mirrors see Burger and Salazar, Machu Picchu, 186–87. It should also be considered, however, that Guaman Poma’s iconography of Mama Huaco with a mirror in her hands may draw on European conventions. In mid-­fifteenth-­century manuscripts from Modena, Venus is depicted with long hair and a mirror in her hand. The mirror was a familiar object from the world of allegories. In the astrological tradition, the moon is also depicted holding a mirror. See Blume, Regenten des Himmels, 325, 329, 457; for a different interpretation, see van de Guchte, “Invention and Assimilation,” 92–109. It is debatable whether the arm ring worn by the Inca “vallaviza pontifize” (also called “vallaviza laica umu hichezero” in Guaman Poma’s depiction [Nueva corónica, image 248, 1:184, and image 277, 1:206]), was used as a mirror (for whatever reason) or whether it was just a symbol of (high) status in Inca society. (These arm rings were also worn by Inca rulers as well as by Inca officials.) See Guaman Poma’s pictures in Nueva corónica, vol. 1; for example, 261, 1:193; 242, 1:179; and 165, 1:127. 39. See the inventories of local churches in AAC, Época colonial, caja XLI, paquete 1, exp. 7, 7. See also the great church of Santa Clara and the chapel of San Antonio Abad in Cuzco. 40. Ávila, Tratado de los evangelios, 2:5. 41. A local church synod in Cuzco, however, did repeat the law, and Cuzco’s bishop controlled whether his priests fulfilled the order. See ACC, Época colonial, leg. XCII, 1, 5, 44 fols. (Cuzco, 9.12. 1591), for example, 11r, a priest should punish “delitos graves como son hechizierías, idolatrías . . .“; and 41r: “Con particular cuydado deven los curas inquirir si en sus doctrinas ay idolatrias, y dogmatizadores o hechizeros y dara aviso de los a los vicarios.” Jesuits in their missions in Cuzco, Julí, Huamanga, Potosí, Chuquisaca, and Quito certainly had a keen eye on hechizeros, but the campaigns remained locally confined and attracted little attention. 42. A report on this auto-­da-­fé was provided after the fact by Francisco de Ávila in his Tratado de los evangelios, preface; and Arriaga, Extirpación, 6. Compare MacCormack, “Gods, Demons and Idols,” 642; Vargas Ugarte, Historia de la iglesia en el Perú, vol. 1; and Mills, Idolatry and Its Enemies, 29–31. 43. Arriaga, Extirpación, 6. 44. Toribio Medina, Historia del tribunal de la Inquisición de Lima, 1:27.

notes to pages 114–116  317 45. We might at first wonder if the departure from tradition manifested by this extreme public punishment was first and foremost the result of Ávila’s problematic character. His own writings show him to have been imprudent, arrogant, and self-­congratulatory. He styled himself as an alternative, even more powerful magus, as did a handful of other Peruvian Jesuits. Ávila probably also sought revenge for an earlier humiliation. And while it is possible that Ávila considered Paucar’s actions to be somehow uniquely threatening, his description of Paucar’s supposed misdeeds diverges in no significant way from his earlier descriptions of hechizeros’ misbehaviors. See Ávila, Tratado, preface. It seems that Jesuits employed this strategy more often in North American territories than in Peru. See Axtell, The Invasion Within, 93, 98. 46. The libraries of the various orders contain the following editions: the Fran‑ ciscan order in Santa Rosa de Ocopa, Mainz (1606); the Franciscans in Cuzco, Lyon (1620); the Recoleta cloister in Arequipa, Mainz (1600) and Lyon (1620); the Mercedarians in Cuzco, Cologne (1657); and the Dominicans in Lima, Lyon (1669). A copy of Delrío’s book is also in the Jesuit library in the Biblioteca Nacional of Quito. 47. Inventario de la “Biblioteca de los jesuitas,” nos. 2225–26, 2245, 2104 (Lyon 1599; Lyon 1604; Lyon, n.d.; Mainz 1617; Cologne 1755). AHN, Clero: Jesuitas, libro 363; fol. 474v. According to its 1939 inventory, the Cuzco library contained books from the former library of San Pablo in Lima. 48. See Arriaga, Extirpación, 154. In colonial private libraries, Eymerich’s Directo­ rium was a standard item. See the inventory of Don Francisco Gonzales de Lambrana in AAC, Época colonial, caja XXX, paquete 1, exp. 6, 11, 1674. 49. In 1607, indigenous people from Huarochirí had accused him of fraud, securing his imprisonment in Lima. On the biography of Ávila, see Hampe Martínez, “El trasfondo personal de la ‘extirpación,’” 91–111; Salomon, “Ávila, Francisco de,” 58–64, with reference to Gerald Taylor’s investigations. 50. Hampe Martínez, Cultura barroca, no. 765, p. 101. 51. Ávila, Tratado, preface. 52. On Catholic processions and especially the Corpus Christi procession, see Dean, Inka Bodies and the Body of Christ. 53. Mujica Pinilla, “‘Dime con quién andas y te diré quién eres,’” 191–219. 54. Ávila described a Pentecostal-­like experience, for example, when God spoke through him and, as a result, he preached a sermon in Quechua with such charisma that he was forced to close the doors of his home at six o’clock in the morning to ward off the multitudes of Indians seeking conversion. See the accounts of other Jesuits who accompanied Ávila on his mission to Huarochirí in AGI, Lima 679, which I consulted in the archive of the Banco Central de Ecuador in Quito. 55. Ávila, Tratado, preface. 56. Arriaga, Extirpación, 6. 57. See AGI, Lima 326. When the Huarochirí region was under control, Ávila ventured into Huánuco; there, in his words, he came to realize “that in other parts of the kingdom the indigenous people were as blind and idolatrous” as in Huarochirí. Ávila, “Relación que yo, el doctor Francisco de Ávila, presbítero, cura y beneficiado de la ciudad de Huánuco, hice por mandado del señor Arzobispo de los Reyes,” 386– 99, here 389. 58. See AGI, Lima 305 (April 16, 1618); and Duviols, “La idolatría en cifras,” 87–100.

318  notes to pages 116–117 59. Ávila, Tratado, preface. 60. Delrío, Disquisitionum magicarum libri sex (1640), book 2, question 9, 145. Delrío’s conviction that demonic power lurked behind any speaking statue is firm, and he used it to explain Albertus Magnus’s bronze head. It was the demon—and not a magician’s techniques—that made the bronze head speak. The same example can also be found in earlier editions. Delrío’s fellow Jesuit and fellow countryman Benito Pereira likewise detested the belief of magi in speaking statues. See Pereira, De magia, 36 (1st ed., 1591). 61. It is amazing, given its many dangerous observations about the fields of magic and sorcery under the disguise of orthodoxy, that Delrío’s book passed the censors’ eyes in Seville and Callao. In fact, it was the only book with such contents to gain entry into Peru. Other books on the same subject, but with a positive avowal to magic, such as Agrippa von Nettesheim’s treatise on magic and magical occurrences, were not so lucky. Even though I have consulted many colonial libraries, I could find no sixteenth-­century treatises by either Marsilio Ficino, Agrippa von Nettesheim, or others who openly advocated magical arts. The work of Francisco Torreblanca Villalpando, Epitomes delictorum (1618), which from 1623 onwards was published as Daemonologia sive de magia naturali, who cited much of Delrío, or Benito Pereira’s De magia (published from 1591 onward under different titles) were much less widely distributed than Delrío’s Disquisitionum magicarum libri sex. See Ángel Alcalá, Lit­ eratura y ciencia ante la Inquisición española, on the general impact of the Inquisition on modern scholarship; and Guibovich Pérez, La Inquisición y la censura de libros en el Perú virreinal. Testimony of ongoing expurgation of books in Peru on subjects related to magic can be found in the archive of the Dominicans in Lima and in the Jesuit library of Cuzco. 62. Delrío, Disquisitionum magicarum libri sex (1640), book 2, “An sit aliqua Magia Daemoniaca,” question five, 76. 63. The importance of the auto-­da-­fé is manifested in the standard city chronicles of Lima: see Suardo, Diario de Lima; and Mugaburu, Diario de Lima. 64. Calancha, Crónica moralizada, 245. On its Spanish predecessors, see Avilés, “Auto da Fe,” 249–61. 65. In fact, Paucar’s banishment from the country was a penalty usually reserved for those who actually engaged in religious heresy. Sarmiento de Gamboa, for example, faced banishment but quickly returned (Paucar probably never did). Prior to 1609, a religious specialist was punished by incarceration, flogging, or abjuration in the small central plaza of a local parish. Also prior to 1609, as we have seen, the Catholic clergy by and large refused to view recently baptized Indians who erred as heretics. See Delrío, Disquisitionum magicarum libri sex, preface, where he says: “Before the redeemer Christ appeared on earth, idolatry was spread all over the world. Did not a great quantity of demons speak through statues, everywhere and at all times, and did they not sardonically look upon congregated people? . . . After Jesus was born, this pestilence [the magicians] accompanied idolatry in those regions where belief hadn’t taken root, and as my fellow friars’ letters and histories have credibly witnessed among the Indians [from South America], sorcerers spread everywhere. And in those regions where the faith had already been disseminated, but where the proclamation of the gospel was about to be weakened, faith either deteriorated through many errors or was conquered through heresies, as for example in

notes to pages 117–119  319 Africa or Asia among the followers of Muhammad, and among the heretics in Germany, France, and England. . . . To all these places the dire superstition of magic returns. . . . Once upon a time, the outstanding heretics were also magicians: to these arts the chief of all heretics owes his second name, the Samaritan Simon Magus.” See Eusebius, The History of the Church from Christ to Constantine, 11, 1:73. See also Acts 8:9, 13:8, 19:19. For medieval precedents see Stoyanov, “Der Magier als Häresiarch,” 27–64. 66. Arriaga, Extirpación, “Al Rey No. Sor. En Su Real Consejo,” 28. 67. I thank Sabine Hyland for clarification on this point. See also Griffiths, La cruz y la serpiente, 47–89 and 318–32. 68. Arriaga, Extirpación, preface, 31. Already in 1566, Fray Francisco de la Cruz reported that indigenous dogmatizers were withdrawing into secrecy (AGI, Lima, 313, 1566). 69. AAL, sección hechizerías (1610). 70. AAL, sección hechizerías, leg. 1, 4 (Pasco, 1617). 71. See AGI, Lima 301. 72. See Mills, Idolatry and Its Enemies, 16–38; and Duviols, “La idolatría en cifras,” 78–100. 73. See, for example, RAH, Jesuitas, tomo 81, fol. 81 (mission to Xauxa): Arriaga exclaimed, “We had to go where no Spaniards lived.” See also Villanueva Urteaga, Cuzco 1689. 74. AGI, Lima, 321. Many friars wanted to live in Cuzco, Lima, or Chuquisaca, where life was more comfortable. Journeys to the New World remained arduous. For instance, in 1617 Padre Juan Vásquez noted that a group of Bohemian Jesuits had to cross half of Europe before finally embarking on the final leg of their journey—the ocean crossing from Seville to the Indies—during which the winds almost tore their ship apart. ARSI, Peru, 22, 28v. 75. See, for example, AGI, Lima 121 (1560s). Several Jesuits asked Rome for permission to return home, only to be refused. MP, 7:175, 517. For example, in November 1600 Claudio Aquaviva declined Bernardo Bitti’s petition to return to Spain. 76. Arriaga, Extirpación. The letters the clergy wrote to the Consejo de Indias abounded in complaints about fellow priests (see, for example, AGI, Lima, 313: cartas y expedientes: personas ecclesiasticas, 1566 and afterward). Throughout the seventeenth century the Jesuit generals sent catalogs to their provinces detailing the virtues of the Society’s members for different positions. One such example can be found in the provincial archive of Lima (1630, without a signature). See also AAL, sección hechizerías, leg. 5, 17 (Pachas, 1667). On the discourse about the worthiness of priests, see Calancha, Crónica moralizada, 165. 77. Arriaga, Extirpación, 203; and AAL, sección hechizerías, leg. 2, 6 (Yaután, 1646). 78. He was equally meticulous in ordering the life of his brethren in the Jesuit seminary, the Colegio de San Martín in Lima. Arriaga introduced the position of “observer,” charged with ensuring that students didn’t read or copy “impertinent” books instead of devotional literature. At night, students were to eat only salads and vegetables. If a student was sick, he had to purchase medicine immediately. RML, colección Vargas Ugarte, 38, 14: “Ordenanzas para el colegio San Martín de Joseph Arriaga (1613).”

320  notes to pages 119–122 79. In 1620, the Indians of Huaura lodged a secret complaint against their visita­ tor, whom they alleged had appropriated their possessions, rented horses from them without paying, and made them weave textiles. In the end, the authorities concluded that the accused visitator hadn’t visited the village, and the complaint was shelved. 80. Despite Arriaga’s great knowledge of indigenous customs, it seems that some of his information is informed by ideas also held by Delrío. See, for example, the curious hint of Arriaga at the talk through the elm trees. See in Arriaga, Extirpación, 25. See Delrío, Disquisitiones magicarum, book 2, q. 19. See also the description of the nightly gatherings of the chupadores below. 81. Arriaga, Extirpación, 144. For the following, see Arriaga, Extirpación, 144–57. 82. Even today, the collection of crucifixes in Lima’s Jesuit sacristy is impressive (as are the collections of Cuzco’s Mercedarians). The most treasured examples are of Philippine ivory. The visitators probably had to be content with simpler versions of the mighty cross. 83. Forcing native South Americans and hechizeros to kneel down in front of crosses or monstrances was a common Jesuit practice in the missions; see MP, 7:75 (Cuzco region, 1600). 84. Guaman Poma had already referred to the practice of making hechizeros wear a sign on their clothes. He also referred to the practice that indigenous people who had failed to attend church were marked with a piece of paper on their heads with a demon painted on it (Nueva corónica, 2:528). 85. Arriaga, Extirpación, 150. 86. For a personal profile of many visitators, see here as well as for the following pages, Mills, Idolatry and Its Enemies, 151–58. 87. Some priests were punished for not persecuting hechizeros; see, for example, AAL, sección hechizerías, leg. 5, 7 (Pachas, 1667). An example of a mild persecution can be found in AAL, sección hechizerías, leg. 1, 11 (Carhuamayo, 1631). 88. The usual punishment the Inquisition gave for Spanish, Creole, or mulatto hechizeros was a monetary fine or expulsion from their hometowns. Sometimes they were forced to participate in an auto-­da-­fé. 89. Compare AAL, sección hechizerías, leg. 3, 9 (Huamantanga, 1650); leg. 2a, 14 (Atavillos Altos, 1659); leg. 4, 2 (Ambar, 1662); leg. 5, 11 (Laraos, 1665); leg. 4, 22 (Huañec, 1660); leg. 8, 6 (Junín, 1690); leg. 8, 2 (Chupaca, 1689–94). 90. Villagómez, Exortaciónes, 68v. See AAL, sección hechizerías, leg. 8, 2 (Chupaca, 1689–94), 391r: Julian Cama was declared “supersticioso e falso” and he had to work in one of the hospitals in Lima. 91. Though the practice was rare, Guaman Poma reported that Albornoz tortured hechizeros (Guaman Poma, Nueva corónica 2:548, sec. 676). See also AAL, sección hechizerías, leg. 4, 22 (Huañec, 1660). 92. On the Casa de Santa Cruz, see below. For an example of a local prison, see Hernández Príncipe, “Mitología andina: Idolatrías en Recuay (1617),” 43. 93. AAT, sección idolatrías, DD-­1-­6, Autos criminales seguidos contra María Isidora Asnarán, india del pueblo de Santiago de Cao, por el delito de hechicería (1771). 94. Ibid. 95. AAL, sección hechizerías, leg. 3, 9 (Huamantanga, 1650). The Santa Ana Hospital operated until the twentieth century in the Plaza Italia in Barrios Altos, Lima.

notes to pages 123–126  321 96. Unfortunately, the standard accounts of Lima’s hospitals do not refer to the employment of those who were called hechizeros. The archival material I was able to consult gave no further insights into their work. On the history of Lima’s hospitals, see Rabí Chara, La protección de la salud, 365–455; and Lastres, Historia de la medicina peruana. 97. Some men did have to work in hospitals; see, for example, AAL, sección hechizerías, leg. 8, 2 (Chupacas, 1689–94), 391r. On the foundation of the Casa de Santa Cruz see Cobo, “Fundación de Lima,” 353–55; Duviols, Procesos y visitas de idolatrías, 27; and Mills, Idolatry and Its Enemies, 85. The exact date of its foundation is unclear (around 1615 and 1617). 98. See Arriaga, Extirpación, 112. 99. Ibid., 147. 100. AAL, sección hechizerías, leg. 3, 9 (Huamantanga, 1650). 101. Arriaga, Extirpación, 65. 102. The procedures of the visitator or confessor were similar to those of the Inquisition. See, for example, Silverblatt, Modern Inquisitions; and Wachtel, La foi du souvenir. 103. Arriaga exhibits his knowledge of the Roman classics in chaps. 6 and 7 of his Extirpación. For biblical wisdom, see Arriaga’s Extirpación, chap. 8. 104. Arriaga, Exirpación, 38–40. 105. See ARSI, Peru, vol. 14, fols. 48–71 (1617); with reference to Barranca and Cajatambo, see 55r. 106. According to Vasco de Contreras y Valverde, Relación de la ciudad del Cuzco, 1650, 1–15, 7. Sixteenth-­century indigenous healers made use of an herb called yahua­ chunca, which was said to have the property of “sucking blood.” 107. See chapter 5 on fat tied to yllas, and chapter 6 for its employment in healing rituals. 108. See Pérez González, “Algunas consideraciones sobre el ‘sacamantecas’ y el ‘chu‑ pasangres,’” 18; Rivière, “Lik’ichiri y kharisiri,” 23–40; Arguedas, “Cuentos mágico-­ realistas,” 125–236; Wachtel, Gods and Vampires; Morote Best, “El degollador (Ñakaq),” 67–91; and Taussig, Shamanism, Colonialism, and the Wild Man, 221–41. 109. Guaman Poma, Nueva corónica, 1:280–82; here 207, 192. The idea of sucking sickness from the body of a sick person can also be found in Cajatambo in 1656. See Duviols, Procesos, 194. Here much like the chupador in Arriaga’s account, an hechi­ zera was said to extract stones, spiders, and snakes from a sick body. 110. Castañega, Tratado, 54. By 1526 Fernández de Oviedo y Valdés had published his Sumario de la natural historia de las Indias in Toledo. The “Cronista general de las Indias” referred to Pliny and to chupadores among the Indians of Venezuela who fraudulently healed aching parts of the body by sucking those parts and by pretending to have sucked a thorn or stone. See, in the edition of 1547 of his Historia gen­ eral y natural de las Indias occidentales, book 25, chap. 9, 3:33; and book 6, chap. 9, 168 (with reference to Pliny and his narrative of Romans who sucked blood). Compare Fernández de Oviedo’s alleged fraudulent healers with Guaman Poma’s similar description of fraudulent healers who had been instructed by the Incas (Nueva coró­ nica, section 280–82, 1:209). 111. Castañega (Tratado, 54) established the comparison between the chupadores from New Spain with “parteras brujas” (midwife witches).

322  notes to pages 126–131 112. Delrío, Disquisitionum magicarum libri sex, book 3, q. 2: De maleficio somnifico (Mainz [1617], 356). 113. Rowe, “Inca Culture at the Time of the Spanish Conquest,” 183–330. 114. Gerónimo Pallas, Misión a las Indias, in ARSI, Perú, vol. 22. See Laurencich-­ Minelli and Numhauser, Sublevando el virreinato. 115. Villagómez, Exortaciones, 48v. See Arriaga, Extirpación, 91, 129, and chap. 5. 116. See, for example, the copy in the library Jacinto Jijón y Caamaño in Quito. 117. Indeed, visitators continued to complain that many villages lacked instruction in the Christian faith. Until the nineteenth century, visitation records show that many Indians remained monolingual (without knowledge of Spanish). 118. See Villagómez’s preface to Ávila’s Tratado. 119. Villagómez, Carta pastoral, 56. 120. AAL, sección hechizerías, leg. 3, 2 (Yaulí, 1650). 121. AAL, sección hechizerías, leg. 3, 1 (Yaulí, 1650). See also leg. 3, 2 (Yaulí, 1650). 122. AAL, sección hechizerías, leg. 3, 9 (Huamantanga, 1650); leg. 7, 15 (Pararín, 1677); leg. 8, 6 (Junín, 1690); leg. 9, 5 (Lima, 1695); leg. 10, 8 (Yaulí, 1699). 123. See also AGI, Lima, 303, in which visitator Phelipe de Medina reported about evil witches in Huacho (1650). For accusations of maleficio that in the beginning came from the visitators, later from the common people, see AAL, sección hechizerías, leg. 8, 6 (Junín, 1690); leg. 3, 9 (Huamantanga, 1650); leg. 7, 15 (Pararín, 1677); leg. 9, 5 (Lima, 1695); leg. 10, 8 (Yaulí, 1699); leg. 11, 6a (Llata, 1723); leg. 12, 6 (Arahuay, 1741). 124. Martín de Murúa is an exception (see chapter 7). 125. See, for example, Peña Montenegro, Itinerario para párrocos, 1:503. He was also an avid reader of Delrío. 126. See Álvarez, De las costumbres, 152–58; Duviols, “Camaquen upani,” 132–45; Taylor, “Supay,” 47–63; Silverblatt, Moon, Sun, and Witches, 177–78. 127. ARSI, Perú, vol. 15, 182v, from Cuzco (1641–43); Vega Bazan, Testimonio autén­ tico de una idolatría muy sutil, introduction. 128. Avendaño, Sermones, 80. 129. This case is analyzed in more depth in chapter 6. The native woman Maria Ticllaguacho from Huamantanga had similar encounters with a huaca in form of a “lion” (perhaps a puma) and a fox (AAL, sección hechizerías, 3, 9 [1650]). 130. See the seventeenth-­century depictions of the devils in Carabuco, the Jesuit seminary in Cuzco, and the eighteenth-­century depictions in Huaro, in Caquiaviri, and, to a lesser extent, in Lampa. 131. AAT, sección idolatrías, DD-­1-­8 (Paiján, 1774). 132. AHN, Inquisición, Tribunal de Lima, libro 1040, 84–86. See Millar Carvacho, Inquisición y sociedad, 221–51; Manarelli, “Inquisición y mujeres,” 141–55; and Iwasaki Cauti, “Fray Martín de Porras,” 159–84. 133. The following data are taken from Castañeda Delgado and Hernández Aparicio, La Inquisición de Lima, 362–83; Los delitos de superstición en la Inquisición de Lima, 9–35; and Pérez Villanueva and Escandell Bonet, Historia de la Inquisición en España y América, 2:633–65. 134. See Montesinos, Auto de la fe celebrado en Lima a 23 de enero de 1639. On this occasion, Joseph de Cisneros, in his sermon titled Discurso que en el insigne auto de la fe celebrado en esta real ciudad de Lima aueinte [sic] y tres de enero de

notes to pages 131–132  323 1639 años predicó el M.R.P. Joseph de Cisneros (1639), gave a historical and apologetic account of the merits of the Spanish Inquisition tribunal. 135. From 1570 to 1600—as historians of the Lima Inquisition show—the Inquisition mainly persecuted Spaniards, mestizos, and Creoles for blasphemy. There were twenty-­one cases that involved accusations of witchcraft and hechizería, seventeen of which involved women. Seven Spaniards were accused of invoking demons. 136. See Sánchez, “Mentalidad popular,” 33–52. 137. This work was more popular in Peru than in Spain, thanks to the higher standing of the Jesuit order. In Peru, the influence of the Society on visitation campaigns was vast indeed. Most visitators in the 1650s and 1660s had received their training in Creole institutions—primarily at San Pablo, the Jesuit university in Lima. In the field, visitators were usually accompanied by two Jesuits. Thus, it appears likely that the ideas of the Disquisitionum magicarum libri sex, circulating in Lima, shaped the perceptions of some visitators, who—whether purposefully or subconsciously—began detecting more witches. At the same time, inquisitors had access to the Disquisitionum magicarum libri sex and comparable books in colonial libraries. Franciscans, often part of the Inquisition tribunal, possessed as many copies of Delrío’s treatise as did Jesuits. 138. For the indoctrination of indigenous people, Ávila advocated an emphasis on worshipping saints; the use of naturalistic explanations for the sun, stars, mountains, rivers, and lakes to help bring Indians to the right way of seeing things; and the ordination of more priests to support these measures. This idea of teaching Indians the properties of nature in order to de-­deify their huacas was also propounded by Avendaño. Both of these authors were following a trend toward naturalization exhibited by European scholars like Casaubon and adopted by the Spanish Inquisition. It did not occur to them, however, nor to many other Catholics before the eighteenth century, that demons and miracles could be naturalized as well (see chapter 8). Naturalistic arguments were adopted primarily by the defenders of the Indians and by members of the Inquisition—particularly in the second half of the seventeenth century. See AHN, Inquisición, Tribunal de Lima, lib. 1694a, and the investigations into the case of the Beata de San Augustín. As late as the late eighteenth century, Cuzco’s bishop was eager to control miracles. See ADC, Colegio de ciencias, leg. 6, 1768–69, “Instrucción del modo como se han de autenticar los milagros que Dios obrase.” 139. The synod of 1629 that gathered under Bishop Francisco Verdugo in Huamanga advised its priests to imprison the hechizeros in a separate house (RML, V.U., 34, 5: AGI, Lima, 308). The situation in Cuzco is documented in AGI, Lima, 305 (March 18, 1623) (Cuzco’s archbishop Lorenzo Pérez Grado reported that his territory was free of idolatries). In 1674, 1676, and 1687, Cuzco’s Archbishop Manuel de Mollinedo reported on his visitation in the countryside without mentioning instances of idolatry (see, for example, AGI, Lima, 306). The documents collected by Villanueva Urteaga in his Cuzco 1689 are similarly silent. On Charcas, see Saignes, “Idolâtrie sans extirpateur,” 711–31. He explains the silence of official documents in these areas by hypothesizing a secret pact between local governors and indigenous peoples. Barnadas, “Idolatrías en Charcas (1560–1620)” (89–105), argues that the church was familiar with ongoing idolatries, yet he does not refer to systematic episcopal persecutions. In the eighteenth century, then, as will be shown in chapter 8, persecutions

324  notes to pages 132–135 depended either on the clergy or the civil governors of a particular town—as can be seen in Trujillo (see Larco, Más allá de los encantos). When Bishop Gregorio de Molleda visited local parishes in 1747, the bishop was not interested in idolatries, but those who followed him appointed so-­called notarios de idolatrías (AAT, Libro de visita que emprendió el ilmo. Sr. Dr. Don Gregorio de Molleda, 1747). 140. See Díaz Hidalgo, “Cartas del obispo,” 77–97, esp. 83. Duviols edited the idolatry case of 1671 and pointed to the fact that the synod in Arequipa under bishop Antonio de León admonished the priests to persecute idolatries (see Duviols, “Un procès d’idolâtrie,” 198–211). But even then, systematic persecutions did not take place. 141. See Duviols, “La idolatría en cifras,” 87–100. 142. For a reluctantly initiated visitation by Alfonso Ocón, see Carta annua 1649, reprinted in Polia Meconi, La cosmovisión religiosa andina, 486. So far, we lack a comprehensive history of the bishops of Cuzco; for now, the best information available is found in Angles Vargas, La basílica catedral del Cusco. 143. See Polia Meconi, La cosmovisión religiosa andina, 473, 480, 489, 495, 514, among others (concerning the years 1639, 1641, 1657, 1660, 1664). For earlier reports see Vega [Loaiza], Historia del colegio, 88–126; and Barnadas, “Idolatrías en Charcas,” 89–103. See also Platt and Bouysse-­Cassagne, Qaraqara-­Charka, 139–45 for extirpation activities until 1582. Reports on idolatries and indigenous interactions with the demon thin out—but do not entirely disappear—after 1700. 144. ARSI, Perú 18b, fols. 126–62, 139v (on an Indian woman in Recuay) (1697–99). See also Polia Meconi, Cosmovisión, 547; or in Andagua, Arequipa, fol. 140. 145. On Jesuit observations of hechizería in Chile, see the Historia general de el reino de Chile by Diego de Rosales; and Bascuñán, A 400 años de la llegada de los Jesuitas a Chile, 38. 146. ARSI, Perú, 15, 127–55, fols. 141–42 (Cuzco, 1639, also with reference to the stone in Sayhuite); vol. 16, fols. 155–57v (Arequipa, 1664–66); vol. 17, fol. 127 (Huánuco, 1688–90). 147. ARSI, Perú, 15, fol. 13v (1630–31). 148. ARSI, Perú, 16, fol. 179 (Julí, 1664–66). 149. ARSI, Perú, 20, fol. 210 (Mojos, 1676). On the perception of hechizeros among the Mojos, see also Altamirano, Historia de la misión; Eder, Breve descripción; Eguiluz, Historia de la misión; Cortés Rodríguez, Caciques y hechiceros; and Plaza, “Ni dioses, ni demonios,” 223–32. 150. AGI, Lima, 303. 151. ARSI, Perú, vol. 20, 174v (Conchucos, 1675). 152. ARSI, Perú, vol. 17, 17 (Huamanga, 1678–80). 153. ARSI, Perú, vol. 16, 185r (1667–74). 154. ARSI, Perú, vol. 16, 12 (1655, with reference to Potosí). 155. Anonymous, Historia general de la Compañía de Jesú, in Historia general de la Compañía de Jesús, 2:22, edited by Mateos. 156. Estenssoro Fuchs, Del paganismo a la santidad, 287–89. 157. Guaman Poma, Nueva corónica, sections 674, 688, 2:548. See Mujica Pinilla, “El arte y los sermones,” 244. 158. Avendaño, Sermones, 44v–45r, and for the last part of the citation, 55r.

notes to pages 135–138  325 159. Depictions of hell in local churches of the central highlands can be found, for example, in Xauxa (on behalf of the Franciscans) and in the church of San Cristóbal de Rapaz in Oyón. In the southern Andes in modern-­day Peru and Bolivia, Teresa Gisbert identified nineteen different churches that prominently featured among the Four Last Things, depictions of hell and the Last Judgement. See Mujica Pinilla, “Hell in the Andes,” 177–201, esp. 189; Bouysse-­Cassagne, “Attention!,” 22–40; and Wuffarden, “Avatares del ‘bello ideal’: Modernismo clasicista versus tradiciones barrocas en Lima, 1750–1825,” 113–59, in particular 150–56. 160. Bertonio, Confessionario, 189–227. 161. See chapter 1. See Mujica Pinilla, “El arte y los sermones,” esp. 243–46.

Chapter five 1. Jesuits did not report on hechizeros’ fates after their conversion. Instead, they documented how demonic tortures induced conversions. See, for example, Carta annua 1603, Provincia Peruana, 199–246; Collegium Quitense, esp. 224. For examples see Kenneth Mills, Idolatry and Its Enemies; and Nicholas Griffiths, La cruz y la ser­ piente. See also Millones, “El pleito contra don Juan Vázquez,” 407–33. 2. Contrary to what some have argued, these captured dialogues were not merely a scholarly convention or even inventions. Ávila’s Tratado and Avendaño’s Ser­ mones both presented and understood evangelization as a dialogical endeavor. Peruvian Jesuits used these restaged dialogues to underscore that hechizeros were the ideologues of the Andean world. On the dialogical dimension of Jesuit missions, see Županov, Disputed Mission. 3. Yupanqui, Instrucción, 52. 4. Tercero cathecismo, 564–81; see esp. 577–81 (quotation is from 577 and 580). 5. See Bredekamp, Repräsentation und Bildmagie, with reference to the standard literature of Europe’s Renaissance art history. For the religious implications of the alleged magical power of images within the context of the Catholic Reform, see Eire, War against the Idols; Wandel, Voracious Idols and Violent Hands; and Christian, Local Religion in Sixteenth-­Century Spain. For the concept’s implications for Andean colonial history, see Cummins, “From Lies to Truth,” 152–74. 6. The main texts discussed were Exod. 20:4; Deut. 5:8, 7:5, 27:15. See also several of C. Ginzburg’s articles published in his Wooden Eyes: Nine Reflections on Distance. 7. The latter discussion also reflected—among many other things—the reservations of European elites about popular culture. The main sources from Spain’s intellectual history that reflect this preoccupation are, in chronological order, Castañega, Tratado; Ciruelo Sánchez, Reprobación; and Delrío, Disquisitionum magi­ carum libri sex, book 1 (1599). For a general account, see Scribner, “The Reformation, Popular Magic, and the ‘Disenchantment of the World,’” 475–94. See Calvin, A Trea­ tise on Relics; Dillenberger, Images and Relics. 8. The Council of Trent demanded that Catholic priests closely supervise their believers’ worship and pilgrimages, and specified, concerning images or statues, “that [not] any divinity or virtue is believed to be in them [the images or statues] by reason of which they are to be venerated, or that something is to be asked of them, or that

326  notes to pages 138–141 trust is to be placed in images, as was done of old by the Gentiles who placed their hope in idols.” Schroeder, Canons and Decrees of the Council of Trent, session 25, 215. 9. It was applied in Lima with a slight delay, since the Second Council of Lima, the main council to adopt the Council of Trent’s laws, did not include this provision on the correct worship of saints. 10. Interestingly, Mexican Catholics claimed to inculcate the same distinction between representation and embodiment in their catechism for indigenous people. See Resines, Catecismo del sacromonte y doctrina christiana, 364: “no aveys de pensar, hijos, que las ymagines que estan en el altar o en otra qualquiera parte son el mismo dios, o son los mismos sanctos. No es ansi, hijos. . . . Entender, pues, hijos, que no son las ymagines Dios, ni son los mismos sanctos; porque dios esta en el cielo, y aunque esta en todo lugar, pero esta encubierto, que no lo podemos veer.” Unlike its Andean counterpart, however, the Mexican catechism did not refer to an indigenous assumption that God or the saints were inherent in the statues. 11. González Holguín translated rickchhay as “color, o haz de qualquiera cosa, rostro, o imagen, o figura” (Vocabulario, 315); unancha as “qualquiera señal, estandarte, ynsignia, escudo de armas” (355); and santop unanchan, o richchayninman qquellcasca as “figura ymagen, color, o haz de qualquiera cosa, rostro, o imagen, o figura” (525). See also Álvarez, De las costumbres, 152. 12. Bertonio, Vocabulario, 239, 269. 13. Tercero cathecismo, 564–81. In his 1612 Confessionario, Ludovico Bertonio does not include the discussion of “representation”: see Confessionario muy copioso. 14. Tercero cathecismo, 578. 15. Ethnohistorical studies on space are especially rich for Upper Peru (Bolivia). See different works of Platt, Bouysse-­Cassagne, and Wachtel. 16. MP, 7:55–82, esp. 75, in Cabredo’s carta annua to Claudio Aquaviva on April 20, 1600; he is referring to the colegio in Cuzco. Cisneros, born in Valladolid, was a missionary among the Indians (“obrero de indios”) and served in the Colegio de Cuzco as a spiritual adjunct (“coadjutor spiritual”). A brief description of him can be found in MP, 7:251. 17. See the discussions in Urbano, Mito y simbolismo en los Andes. 18. The concept of an object as magical can also allude to its status as an exceptional piece of art, which had the power to stir emotions. 19. Betanzos (Narrative, 47–48) said also that Yupanqui fabricated a little golden statuette of a young boy, which was dressed. In colonial times, Andeans maintained this habit, transferred to Catholic saints. See also Polo de Ondegardo, “Errores,” 8; and Sarmiento, History, 61. 20. Betanzos, Narrative, 44. 21. See, for example, AAL, sección hechizerías, leg. 2, 6 (Yaután, 1646–48). See also Tercero cathecismo, 564–81, 569. On Inca precedents, see Burger and Salazar, Machu Picchu, 151. On a similar modern-­day concept among southern Peruvian religious specialists, see Ricard Lanata, Ladrones de sombra. 22. Pachacuti, “Relación,” 269. 23. Molina, “Relación,” 82. 24. Many rituals recorded by visitation protocols during the seventeenth century obeyed the logic of duality. See, for example, AAL, sección hechizerías, leg. 3, 9 (Hua-

notes to pages 141–144  327 mantanga, 1650: on male/female duality); leg. 3, 2 (Yaulí, 1650). For an ethnological account, see, for example, Flores Ochoa, La missa andina, 717–28. 25. Modern-­day Kallawayas understand their amulets as objects that generate what is depicted and what already exists. Bastien, “Good Luck Fetishes,” 352–61. 26. Avendaño, Sermones de los misterios de nuestra santa fe católica. See also Tercero cathecismo, 579. 27. Ávila, Tratado, 113 (a somewhat liberal translation). 28. Ávila, Tratado, 268v. 29. AAL, sección hechizerías, leg. 5, 1 (San Francisco de Mangas, 1663). 30. See MP, 8:170–354: Cabredo’s long carta annua to Aquaviva on April 28, 1603, esp. 218. 31. See MP, 7:55–82, Cabredo’s carta annua to Aquaviva on April 20, 1600, esp. 75 (Colegio de Cuzco). 32. Arriaga, Extirpación, 150. On the theatrical mode as technique of Jesuit missionaries, see Županov, Disputed Mission, 147–94. 33. Various authors, among them Martín Delrío in his Disquisitionum magi­ carum libri sex, and Spanish and Creole priests in their sermons emphasized precisely that point. See Delrío, Disquisitionum magicarum libri sex (1640), 53, on the discussion of the power of amulets. 34. See, for example, Prado, Directorio espiritual, 81r–96r, 146–49; Honton, Sermon que se predicó en la fiesta del Patrocinio de la Virgen Santissima María; and Rodríguez Fernández, Sermones al milagroso aviso que dio a la ciudad de los Reyes la serenissima reyna de los cielos Maria. 35. MP, 7:31–124: Cabredo’s carta annua to Aquaviva on April 20, 100, esp. 75. 36. The Crown’s interest in loadstone can be seen in Ávila Briceño, “Descripción y relación de la Provincia de los Yauyos,” 155–65, 158; and, of course, in Barba, Arte de los metales. See Salazar-­Soler, “Álvaro Alonso Barba,” 269–99. The convent of Santa Rosa de Ocopa counts Athanasius Kircher’s Magnes sive de arte magneticae (Rome, 1641) among its treasures. 37. AHN, Inquisición, Tribunal de Lima, book 1032, 388 (1696); in the eighteenth century, AHN, Inquisición, Tribunal de Lima, libro 1649, exp. 24, exp. 13 (1776, 1778). To this day, healers of the north and in the southern Andes continue to use the loadstone (Polia Meconi, Las lagunas de los encantos, 29). According to the altomisayuq Nasario Turpe, the loadstone serves “para el ánimo,” the soul. 38. Ramos Gavilán, Historia, 24. The metaphor, from Isidore of Seville’s Etimolo­ gías, is later a topos in Konrad von Megenberg’s Book of Nature. 39. The Jesuit Antonio de Céspedes reversed the metaphor in his Sermones varios predicados por el Padre Antonio de Céspedes (1677), claiming that Jesus was the magnet. 40. Ramos Gavilán, Historia, 24. On the European and particularly Jesuit interest in exorcisms, see also Selwyn, A Paradise Inhabited by Devils; and Roper, Oedipus and the Devil, 179. 41. Peña Montenegro, Itinerario para párrocos, 1:504–8. In the famous exorcism cases discussed by the Inquisition tribunal, these procedures are made much more explicit; see, for example, AHN, Inquisición, Tribunal Lima, leg. 1650, Fray Francisco de la Cruz, 1575. See Iwasaki Cauti, Inquisiciones Peruanas.

328  notes to pages 144–147 42. Curiously enough, other images associated with her omitted such scenes. Instead, they usually showed indigenous people carrying crosses in their travels through the Andes. 43. ARSI, Perú, 15, 229 (1649). 44. Menghi, Compendio dell’arte essorcistica (1576 and later editions). Lima’s Dominican library owns a copy. The Inventario de la “Biblioteca de los jesuitas,” no. 2054, listed Menghi’s Daemonastix seu adversus daemones et maleficos (Lyon, 1669). Another authority on exorcism was Zaccaria Visconti. His Thesaurus exorcis­ morum atque coniurationum terribilium (Cologne, 1608 [1626]) is in the possession of the Mercedarians of Cuzco (1626 edition), and the Modus interrogandi daemonem ab exorcista (Naples, 1642) is now in the library of the Instituto Riva-­Agüero, Lima. 45. Today, people in the southern Andes employ ruda (rue) to exorcise evil from people and chase it out of the possessed. According to early modern European treatises on exorcisms, rue was one of the ingredients that attracted the devil. See Weidner, Elixir jesuiticum. Spanish or black ritual specialists also seem to have introduced rue to the Andes as a popular tool for exorcising. In one case, a seventy-­ year-­old mulatto woman, Franzisca Andrea de Benavidez from Lima, was convicted for her use of rue and for other superstitious deeds; see AHN, Inquisición, Tribunal de Lima, book 1032, 406v. 46. For an account see also Acosta, Natural and Moral History, book 7, chap. 27, 442–44. As was already shown in chapter 1, the Cruz de Carabuco survived vicious attacks of fire launched by a demon and his hechizeros. In the end, the cross had healing properties. A soldier erected the Cruz de Santa Cruz de la Sierra after betting the Indians that if they worshipped it instead of their demonic huacas, they would receive rain. The Indians took the bet, and as soon as they began worshipping, rain poured out of the heavens. The cross was given the name of Santa Cruz de la Sierra, and worshippers believe it has guaranteed fertility ever since. The Cruz de Pachacamac sealed the mouth of an oracle-­giving demon, whose immense temple with its millions of adobe bricks then turned back into a desert—forgotten until its rediscovery by grave robbers and archaeologists. 47. Avendaño, Sermones, 84rv. 48. See, for example, Peña Montenegro, Itinerario para párrocos, 1:497. 49. ARSI, Perú, 19, f. 7: Andreas López’s report to the procurator in Rome (Cuzco, 1576). On other instances that involved a cross see also MP, 1:687–91; MP, 7:31–124: Rodrigo de Cabredo’s carta annua to Aquaviva, Lima, April 20, 1600, here 92. Here the Jesuits described how they employed the cross to make indigenous people confess. See also MP, 7:75, April 20, 1600, in Cuzco, on the cross: “y remedió el veneno que el demonio por su ministro avía sembrado.” 50. Carta annua 1608, 83, from Santa Cruz de la Sierra. 51. Carta annua 1608, 76, from the Cuzco region. 52. Carta annua 1603, 232, from Julí. 53. MP, 8:170–354, Cabredo’s long carta annua to Aquaviva on April 28, 1603, esp. 256–61. 54. MP, 8:261. 55. Carta annua 1606, 228–230; here, 228. 56. Carta annua 1608, 74, from the Lima region.

notes to pages 147–149  329 57. Carta annua 1603, 229–31, describing a miracle that happened on May 7, 1603. 58. Carta annua 1609, 541–42, from Santa Cruz de la Sierra. The list of relics in the Provincial archive of the Jesuits in Lima registers an autograph letter of Saint Ignatius, written in 1552 to “Don Juan el 3 rey de Portugal.” The letter was framed in a relic receptacle (no. 41). 59. Carta annua 1610, 500–1, from the Cuzco region. 60. Cussen, “Search for Idols and Saints,” 417–48. 61. Ramos Gavilán, Historia, 115–26. 62. Usually, bishops were careful in determining whether statues did in fact have “miraculous features” and whether an occurrence was a true miracle. But their judgments hardly ever affected how people perceived the miraculous statues. 63. This report appeared earlier, in Acosta’s carta annua from the year 1576. Reprinted in Acosta, Obras, 269. 64. The cartas mortuarias in the ANJ and the letters in the ANS, Fondo Jesuitas, Varias, are a rich source for learning about the many fears of ordinary missionaries throughout the colonial period. 65. Lisi, Tercer concilio, chap. 10, 209. On the medieval notion of the agnus dei, see Freudenthal, “Agnus Dei,” 215–19; Guiley, The Encyclopedia of Witches and Witch­ craft; and Newall, The Encyclopedia of Witchcraft and Magic. 66. MP, 1:360–61, Franciscus Borgia from Rome to Didacus de Avellañeda, January 3, 1570, reporting that they sent six dozen agnus dei images to Peru. See also MP, 1:384, 387. By that time, the congregation consisted of only a few subjects. 67. Cuzco’s cathedral houses several depictions of the lamb and of Mary as pastor. An agnus dei adorns an altar in the Jesuit church, La Compañía. On the pictorial program in the cathedral, see Gisbert and Mesa, Historia de la pintura cuzqueña. 68. See, for example, in Esquivel y Navia, Noticias cronológicas de la gran ciudad del Cuzco, 2:91 ff. On contemporary perceptions of sixteenth- and seventeenth-­ century earthquakes see Seiner Lizárraga, Historia de los sismos en el Perú. 69. Martin, Plague?, 103. Charles Borromeo used processions in times of epidemic plague to bring the whole city to penitence. 70. MP, 7:6, the report of an anonymous Jesuit from Arequipa on March 3, 1600. 71. Christian, Local Religion, 100. Especially in the countryside, the guardians of shrines sold little items that pilgrims could take away with them. In New Castile candles, small crucifixes, prints and small replicas of a miracle-­working image, and ribbons were used for healing purposes. Shrines played an important role in medieval piety. The efficacy of talismans was described in Enrique Villena’s Arte cisoria, ó tratado del arte del cortar, 341; he referred to talismans that protect against intoxications and those that serve as protective devices against the evil eye. See Garrosa Resina, Magia y superstición en la literatura castellana medieval. 72. Given the scope of this book, I cannot discuss Spanish and Creole relationships to saints in much detail, but see Mujica Pinilla, Rosa limensis. 73. Busto Duthurburu, “La platería en el Perú,” e.g., 256, 284, 285; Fane, Con­ verging Cultures, 244. 74. For an overview of saints in viceregal Peru see Vargas Ugarte, Historia del culto de María en Iberoamérica; Sánchez-­Concha Barrios, Santos y santidad en el Perú virreinal; Flores Araoz, Mujica Pinilla, Wuffarden, and Guibovich Pérez, Santa

330  notes to pages 149–153 Rosa de Lima y su tiempo; Iwasaki Cauti, “Vidas de santos y santas vidas,” 47–64; and Greer and Bilinkoff, Colonial Saints. Lively descriptions can be found in the two works titled Diario de Lima, by Mugaburu and by Suardo. 75. AAL, Processo de la beatificación de San Martín de Porres (1678–96), 2:434r; Iwasaki Cauti, “Fray Martín de Porras,” 159–84. 76. Frézier, Relación del viaje por el mar del sur, 207. 77. See AHN, Inquisición, Tribunal de Lima, book 1031, 374 (1656, Maria de Cordova); 531 (Juana de Vega). 78. To this day, curanderos in modern-­day Chiclayo start their healing procedures by asking, “Do you have an amulet?” 79. Not least because European-­type relics would have been similar to the ancestor cult of indigenous people that Catholic priests wanted to eradicate. Chroniclers as well as Jesuits labeled remnants of destroyed huacas “reliquias.” See chapter 3. 80. Provincial archive of the Jesuits in Lima: Memoria de las sagradas reliquias, que tiene este Colegio de San Pablo de la Compañia de Jesús de Lima por abril del año de 1661. The list was begun in 1661, maintained until November 1662, and ampliated in 1677. Vargas Ugarte’s Los jesuitas del Perú y el arte (30–34) refers to this list. 81. In 1572, Pope Gregory XIII had granted the Jesuit Hernando Solier the right to take relics from Roman churches to the Indies for missionary purposes. The order had access to the store rooms of the Basilica San Pablo de Extramuros in Rome and to the cemetery of Callisto, and received relics from various donors from Spain and elsewhere. Under Archbishop Toribio de Mogrovejo, relics for the Jesuit order started to trickle into colonial Peru. 82. Lisi, Tercer concilio, 209: “de las reliquias de los santos. No se deben poseer reliquias de los santos, a las que conviene venerar profundamente, sin examen y aprobación anterior del ordinario ni tampoco las lleven los seculares y laicos sin una licencia especial, según el decreto del concilio anterior. Se aprueba la devoción justamente loable de llevar consigo Agnus Dei de cera benditos por el sumo pontífice, siempre que sean puros y no colorados.” 83. ADC, Colegio de Ciencias, leg. 6, 1768–69, fol. 82. 84. Provincial archive of the Jesuits in Lima: Memoria de las sagradas reliquias, que tiene este Colegio de San Pablo de la Compañia de Jesús de Lima por abril del año de 1661, fol. 65. 85. The original reads “defensa espiritual.” 86. ADC, Colegio de Ciencias, leg. 16a, cuaderno 4, first document: “Autenticación de la reliquia Sta. Justina Virgen y Martir dicho en 12 de septiembre de 1673.” 87. See Solis, Tesoro de la iglesia católica. 88. For a different reading than the one given here and in the following, see Estenssoro Fuchs, Del paganismo a la santidad, 141–45. 89. Compare MacCormack, “El gobierno de la República Cristiana,” 217–49. 90. Acosta, De procuranda indorum salute, 1:276–77: “agua bendita, imágenes, rosarios, cuentas benditas, cirios.” 91. Ibid. 92. ARSI, Perú, 17, 1603. These papers were perhaps iconographic depictions of the Ten Commandments. 93. See also Huarochirí Manuscript, chap. 9, sec. 134. 94. In Guaman Poma’s depictions, the Franciscans, in contrast, were shown dis-

notes to pages 153–155  331 tributing alms in the form of bread while they carried the cross. Augustinians and Mercedarians were depicted punishing indigenous people. 95. Arriaga, Extirpación, 129; Guaman Poma, Nueva corónica, image 635, 2:515. Though Guaman Poma describes the Jesuits as distributing alms, the picture shows them giving out sacred items. Interestingly, a hermit and nuns of different orders were shown as receiving alms, not donating them. The Augustinians and the Dominicans were also depicted as brutally mistreating Indians, without handing anything out. 96. Arriaga, Extirpación, 91. 97. ARSI, Perú, 17, fol. 240. 98. RML, V.U., vol. 21, n.p. The document is a transcript of MS 220 from the Biblioteca Nacional de Lima. Manuel Vicente Ballivian supposedly published parts of it in 1891. See also ARSI, Perú, 20, fols. 174–79v, from the mission among the Conchucos. 99. Gregorio de Cisneros, letter dated September 15, 1606. 100. See also Carta annua 1603, 199–246, esp. 203–4, reporting that a religious specialist in the province of Lima had argued that there were two gods: the Christian God, for the Christians, and Pambabilca, for native South Americans. The Jesuit who wrote this account referred to an alleged orthodoxy among Indians that claimed that indigenous people did not have to worship foreign gods. 101. On colonial thinking about forasteros, or foreigners, see Wightman, Indige­ nous Migration. See also the propagandistic usage of trophy heads among the Nazca and Moche, discussed in Silverman and Proulx, The Nasca; and Bawden, Art of Moche Politics, 116–30. 102. See Mills, “The Naturalization of Andean Christianities,” 504–35. But unless we carefully investigate the genesis of assimilations, as well as the logic behind them and their limits, this term simply obfuscates and takes the place of the required description and analysis. During colonial times, not everything was yet mestizaje, a concept whose ambit was unclear and whose manifestations were numerous and changing. These features account for the attractiveness of mestizaje, as well as the pitfalls of investigations into it. 103. The history of assimilations bears as many faces as there are valleys and local customs in the Andes, and it still contains many blanks. The lack of any trustworthy history of the unofficial dissemination of knowledge is a bar to understanding the local varieties. It seems that the church transmitted a rather general notion of saints, Mary, and the Trinity. Guaman Poma reported in Nueva corónica (2:685) that Indians were made to pray to God, Mary, and the saints on every occasion, and commented that these indigenous prayers were better than the Jesuit “coplas” (brief chanted prayers). The existence of common prayers does not explain how certain saints gained prominence over others, however. We know, because Ávila exclaimed against it, that indigenous people held the belief that “Santa Maria, San Pedro, San Francisco y otros santos” were healers—but we do not know why. Why was there particular trust in Saint Peter as a protector against fever—a common European notion—when the connection did not appear in the Peruvian Catechism? 104. Today, the guard of the Carabuco church tells visitors that the “Christ” in the ascension to the heavens, is, in fact, Tunupa. 105. MP, 8:304, Cabredo’s carta annua to Aquaviva on April 28, 1603, here 304. 106. False assimilations were increasingly targeted over the course of the seven-

332  notes to pages 156–157 teenth century. See Ávila, “Relación,” 386–89; and in particular AAL, sección hechizerías, 2a, 12 (Ambar, 1661–65). This case required 370 folio pages to investigate Indians who had faked a baptism and a procession one week after the official Corpus Christi procession. The Indians derided the priest as well as the Inquisition. 107. Doctrina christiana, 41;, and particularly the litany as part of the “Exhortación breve para los indios que estan ya muy al cabo de la vida para que el sacerdote, o algun otro les ayude a bien morir,” in Doctrina Christiana, 304–7. See also Prado, Directorio espiritual, 171r–188v. 108. RML, colleción Vargas Ugarte 32, 16: Milagro de Nuestra Señora de Guadalupe in Ica (1599); MP, 3:364 (in Julí in 1584); AAT, Sumaria información sobre un milagro que hizo Ntra Sra. de Copacabana en la ciudad de Trujillo (February 2, 1601). Ramos Gavilán and Antonio de la Calancha have reported on similar occurrences. 109. Gisbert, “Del Cusco a Potosí,” 61–94. On the adaptation of the Virgin, see especially Dean, “The Renewal of Old World Images,” 171–82. 110. AAL, sección hechizerías, leg. 2a, 12 (Ambar, 1661); leg. 3, 9 (Huamantanga, 1650); leg. 5, 3 (Lima, 1663). 111. See, for example, Gisbert, “Del Cusco a Potosí,” 61–94; Mills, “The Naturalization of Andean Christianities,” 504–35; Fane, Converging Cultures; MacCormack, “Religion and Society in Inca and Spanish Peru,” 101–13; Perú indígena y virreinal; Los siglos de oro; and Rostworowski, Pachacamac y el Señor de los Milagros. 112. According to Guaman Poma de Ayala, male Indians were made to offer half a real, while female Indians were made to give a corncob on the main feast days of Christian Peru: Nativity, Holy Thursday, Corpus Christi, and the first Catholic miracles. The commemorations of the miracle of Santiago took place on January 24, of the holy Cross of Carabuco on May 3, of Santa María de Peña de Francia (identical with the Virgin of Copacabana) on August 5, and of San Bartolomé on August 24. Spanish money was sometimes offered to huacas or used as payment for a religious specialist’s service. See, for example, AAL, sección hechizerías, 3, 9 (Huamantanga, 1650); leg. 3, 16 (San Lorenzo de Quinti, 1660); leg. 5, 1 (Mangas, 1663); leg. 10, 6 (Huarochirí, 1700). 113. AAL, sección hechizerías, leg. 3, 9 (Huamantanga, 1650). Crosses were also erected on top of huacas. See, for example, Hernández Príncipe in Arriaga, Extirpa­ ción, 92. 114. Relación de los agustinos, 24. 115. To this day, loyal Cuzqueños defend the worship of the fifteen saints on Corpus Christi by saying that they are actually showing reference to the huacas enclosed in the saintly statues. And to this day a curious boulder sits in the left-­hand corner of Cuzco’s cathedral, directly behind the entrance, which modern altomisa­ yuqs and other dignitaries in Cuzco and its countryside revere and to which they offer coca leaves and chicha. In the twentieth century, several archbishops wanted to lift the boulder and roll it out, but it still remains. Cayo García Miranda, Cuzco, interview, June 2005. 116. Arriaga, Extirpación, 93. 117. Ibid., 169. 118. AAL, sección hechizerías, leg. 6, 1 (Ondores, 1668). In Junín in 1668, Pedro Qusipixima de San Blas unearthed the deceased ancestors so that they might be remembered.

notes to pages 158–159  333 119. RML, colleción Vargas Ugarte, 21: “Historia de la provincia del Perú escrita por el P. Diego Francisco Altamirano,” copy of a manuscript in the Biblioteca Nacional de Lima, no. 220 (written 1710). The author dealt with the time between 1568 and 1695. 120. Guaman Poma de Ayala approved of Indians serving as baptizers in those areas not yet reached by a priest. This passage has not yet aroused much scholarly attention. Guaman Poma (Nueva corónica, 839, 2:686) concluded: “es muy justo y necesario, forzoso en este reino que lo aprenda en la doctrina, en la iglesia, para que todos aprendan, y diga así de esta manera,” and then he added what needed to be said upon baptizing a child. 121. To this day, we are acquainted with the names of local lords who were devout followers of the Christian faith. Gisbert, “Del Cusco a Potosí,” 61–94. 122. Dean, Inka Bodies and the Body of Christ. For sixteenth-­century assimilations among the Inca elite, see MacCormack, “History, Historical Record and Ceremonial Action,” 329–63, esp. 349. 123. It should not be forgotten that their effort was sometimes charged with apocalyptic fears. For many priests and missionaries, the conversion of native South Americans to Catholicism was the last stepping-­stone before the resurrection of the whole world. 124. See Cox, Guaman Poma de Ayala entre los conceptos andino y europeo de tiempo; MacCormack, “Time, Space, and Ritual Action,” 295–334; and Zuidema, El calendario inca. 125. See, for example, Carta annua 1603, Lima, 200, on the confraternity Deiparae (the one who gave birth to Christ); 218, on the confraternity Mariani sodalis in Chucuisaca. See MP, 7:69, referring to the confraternity Niño Jesús (Cuzco, 1600); and Carta annua 1603 (Arequipa), 220, referring to the confraternity Purificata Virgini Sacra (Arequipa, 1603). In Julí, the Spanish-­Indian confraternity Nuestra Señora did not try to meet the needs of an agrarian society (MP, 3:363, Julí, 1584); the same holds true for the confraternity for blind natives (see Carta annua 1606, 185, Lima). The first to discuss confraternities was Reverter-­Pezet, Las cofradías en el virreynato del Perú; their history merits more substantial research, however. See also Mills, “The Naturalization of Andean Christianities,” 504–35. 126. Oré, Rituale seu manuale, 310. See also his “coniuratio contra nubem et gradinem” (368). See Castañega, Tratado, 131–37. 127. During the seventeenth century, Franciscans were most active in setting up missions in the Amazon region: from 1622 to 1638 near Iquitos, from 1635 to 1640 along the Napo River, from 1647 to 1649 along the Marañon, from 1657 to 1661 along the Ucayali, and in 1670 in Cajamarquilla. 128. An example of a stoup made from crafted Andean stone can be seen today in the church of Checacupe, Department of Cuzco. 129. See Nicolas de Olea’s sermon on Saint Ignatius, delivered in Cuzco (undated, but probably late seventeenth century; Provincial Archive of the Jesuits in Lima). On the Renaissance background, see Don Cameron Allen, Mysteriously Meant. 130. Picinelli’s book was found in Cuzco’s library. See Inventario de la “Biblioteca de los jesuitas,” no. 641. The Recoleta library in Arequipa holds one edition of Picinelli’s work as well. 131. Its flowers reminded scholars of the crown of thorns that Jesus had to wear

334  notes to pages 159–160 during his passion, and before turning into a fruit, the flower also represented the three nails that were used to nail Jesus to the cross. The leaves of the passion fruit were interpreted as the five wounds of Christ. See Acosta, Natural and Moral His­ tory; Cobo, Historia del nuevo mundo, 1:207–8, “apincoya”; León Pinelo, El paraíso en el nuevo mundo; Charles L’Écluse, Exoticorum libri decem, 347; and particularly the interpretation in Nieremberg, Historia naturae, 299; and Nieremberg, Curiosa, y occulta filosofia, 8v, which reappeared in Zahn, Specula physico-­mathematico-­ historica notabilium ac mirabilium, 234 (here the “Granadilla sive flos Passionis” is also depicted). In Peru, missionaries were often more interested in the fruit and in its positive effects on stomachaches than in its symbolic meaning. See ARSI, Perú, vol. 20, 133 (Chica, 1629), commenting on the wonderful abundance of granadillas somewhere between Santa Cruz de la Sierra and Potosí. 132. To this day, this can be seen in the church of San Gerónimo of Cuzco, whose lower altar is made of silver and high altar of gold. In Belén in Cuzco, which fell victim to art thieves, the silver was stolen and replaced with aluminum foil—so as to preserve the meaning of what had disappeared. 133. Sarmiento, History, chap. 38, 118; chap. 62, 167. 134. See, for example, AGI, Lima, 303: the visitator Phelipe de Medina reports about idolatries in Huacho, where he found many shells that had had been sacrificed on a mountain; AAL, sección hechizerías, leg. 3, 9 (Huamantanga, 1650); leg. 10, 6 (Huarochirí, 1700); AAT, DD-­1-­5 (Moche, 1771). See also Polia Meconi, Cosmo­ visión, 118. 135. See also Diego Quispe Tito’s employment of this iconography. Gisbert and Mesa, Pintura cuzqueña, 1:139. 136. The paradoxical process of assimilation has often been described. See Gow, “The Roles of Christ and Inkarrí in Andean Religion,” 279–98; Choy, “De Santiago matamoros a Santiago mata-­indios,” 333–34; Silverblatt, “Political Memories and Colonizing Symbols,” 174–94; and Gisbert and Arze, Arte textil y mundo andino. But chroniclers introduced yet another layer of European accommodation that has not received similar scholarly attention. Blas Valera identified Illapa with Saturn, and Cobo identified him with Jupiter. Polo de Ondegardo located Illapa in the air and attributed to the Inca priest of Illapa features that were specific to the priest of the Hammon Oracle (i.e., communication only via signs, without a voice). In Livy and Cicero, Jupiter was the god of the augurs. On recent assimilations, see Platt, “Sound of Light,” 196–229; and Bastien, “Good Luck Fetishes,” 352–61. Roel Pineda (“Creencias y prácticas religiosas,” 25–32) documents the role of Santiago in modern southern Andean mythology. 137. See Flores Ochoa and Kuon Arce, Pintura mural, 195, on the Capilla de Sipascancha, Colquepata, near Paucartambo (sixteenth century). See also Gisbert, Icono­ grafía, 28, 195–98. Other examples can be found in the Cuzco cathedral and in the provincial churches of Pucyura, Lampa, Chekakupe, and Huaro (from the seventeenth and eighteenth centuries). 138. Guaman Poma, Nueva corónica, images 784, 885, 2:640, 730. On how indigenous religious specialists conceived of Santiago, see AAL, sección hechizerías, leg. 8, 2, 89, 139v (Chupaca, 1689–94). Various testimonies give explicit insights into dialogues between Santiago, the healer, and a sick person; see ARSI, Perú, 14, fol. 101

notes to page 162  335 (Cusco, 1627–28). Santiago most often appeared in white (as was typical for the apparitions of huacas). He was often considered the harbinger of health. 139. Arriaga’s prohibition proved futile, as Santiago remained a popular name among indigenous people. See, for example, AAL, sección hechizerías, leg. 2, 6 (Yaután, 1646–48); leg. 3, 3 (Huarmey, 1650). The Jesuit Iacinto Barrassa’s 1662 sermon on the indigenous doctrine of Cercado still emphasized the role of Santiago as Matamoros. Barrasa, Sermones varios predicados. 140. See AHN, Inquisición, Tribunal de Lima, book 1027, 316. In 1580, Gutíerrez de Logroño was accused of performing love magic, possessing toads, and having prayed to Saint Cyprian to liberate him from being bewitched. 141. Since colonial Peruvian discourse and modern customs establish, in one way or another, a link between Saint Cyprian, Saint Anthony the Abbot, Saint Bartholomew, Saint Anne, and hechizeros, we might initially suspect that colonial depictions of these saints were aimed against hechizeros and their interactions with demons. But even though Saint Bartholomew was considered the symbolic victor over idolatrous hechizeros, the Jesuits became suspicious of his symbolic value by the early seventeenth century, perhaps because he was depicted by sacred history as having an ambivalent attitude toward demons. They therefore replaced him with the apostle Thomas. And though Saint Anthony the Abbot was generally portrayed in his fight against demons, and the Spanish Jesuit Hernando Castrillo ranked San Antonio Abad among the few keepers of natural wisdom, his Andean iconography does not establish a particular link with hechizeros. Another possible candidate for a saint who addressed hechizeros is Saint Anne; today, her church in Cuzco bears special significance for altomisayuqs and curanderos, and during colonial times she became the patron saint of Indians. Yet Saint Anne was not then associated with religious specialists. Likewise, although Peruvian street vendors today sell the small Libro de San Cipriano—an eclectic accumulation of numerology, astrology, and hermetic magic that was already popular in early modern Spain (Barreiro, Brujos y astrólogos de la Inquisición de Galicia)—colonial documents do not refer to Saint Cyprian or his book in the hands of religious specialists. (He is mentioned in Bertonio, Libro de la vida, 43, but with no allusion to hechizeros.) We don’t know when modern ritual specialists began to use the book of Saint Cyprian. 142. On the possibility that the various depictions of saints with their wings allude to Inca and Andean beliefs in transformation, see Mujica Pinilla, Las plumas del sol y los ángeles de la conquista. See also examples from colonial rituals in chapter 6. 143. The Franciscans, Mercedarians, Jesuits, and Augustinians took a delight in the piedra Huamanga, a yellowish kind of alabaster. In Julí, the windows of the churches today named Iglesia de Asunción and San Juan de Letrán were made of alabaster. In the Jesuit church of Cuzco, two windows on the right of those entering the church are made of alabaster. Alonso Barba in his El arte de los metales reported how Jesuits in their colegio in Chuquiabo had a water fountain made out of a white stone that allowed the onlooker to observe the flow of water (in the German edition, Bergbüchlein, 51). AGNL, Colegio in Arequipa 1578, gives evidence of more alabaster statues in the Jesuit colegio of Arequipa. Without doubt, the Jesuits admired the piedra Huamanga. The Mercedarians in their Cuzco convent also had alabaster windows. Moreover, piedra Huamanga was used to craft statues of saints. Antonio

336  notes to pages 164–166 de la Calancha, in his Crónica moralizada, 54, wrote in summary: “En Guamanga labran con verro los Indios en estos alabastros burdos diversas imagenes de santos de media talla, i de talla entera, las mas son pequeñuelas, pero sacanlas con tan linda perfeción, que ni el senblaje tiene mas primores, ni el arte del buril mas sutilezas.” To this day the Kallawayas—from the former Collasuyo, which had the colonial reputation for being the homeland of great hechizeros—have the prerogative of fabricating talismans out of piedra Huamanga, which in the Lake Titicaca region is called belen­ guela. Whether this tradition reached back to colonial times is unknown. Thus, the suggestion that baroque churches used alabaster for reasons beyond an esteem for valuable stones—or even specifically to transform an indigenous symbolism—must remain speculative. 144. In those times of distress, Peruvian Europeans likewise appealed vigorously to God and their saints and relied more on them than on the nurse (enfermero) in their colegios. 145. See, for example, Carta annua 1608, 83 (Santa Cruz de la Sierra). 146. Denunciations were normal; see AAL, sección hechizerías, leg. 1, 17 (Lima, Trujillo, 1610). Self-­denunciations remained rare, however. 147. In precolonial villages in the Andean countryside, where members were economic equals and relied on one another’s help in the ayni and minka, rivalries were probably low-­key. See, for example, Milla Villena, Ayni; and Bolin, Rituals of Respect. 148. On indios ladinos, see Adorno, “Images of Indios Ladinos in Early Colonial Peru,” 232–71. 149. AAL, sección hechizerías, leg. 1, 17 (Lima, Trujillo, 1610): “todos los indios son hechizeros que mochan guacas y tienen idolos por que las cosas que hazen no son de christianos.” 150. See, for example, AAL, sección hechizerías, leg. 3, 21 (Huarocin, 1650), leg. 3, 2 (Yaulí, 1650). 151. Duviols, Procesos, 204. 152. Indians’ fear of going to Lima is documented in AAL, sección hechizerías, leg. 3, 9 (Huamantanga, 1650) and already reported in Borja, “Relación en suma de la doctrina e beneficio de Pimampiro,” 247–53. Examples of native South Americans who consulted religious specialists for healing are numerous. It is particularly interesting to see that Indians in the north often attended a religious specialist after first visiting a Spanish or Creole doctor who had proved unable to heal them. See AAT, sección idolatrías, DD-­1-­1 (Trujillo, 1752); DD-­1-­6 (Santiago de Cao, 1771); DD-­1-­7 (Lucma, 1774). 153. In coining the metaphor of the lion, Spaniards apparently transformed the Inca metaphor of the puma, which symbolized the body politic with the Inca as head and the commoners as limbs. See Zuidema, “The Lion in the City,” 183–251. The oto­ rongo (jaguar) was also an important feature of Inca symbolism. See Guaman Poma, Nueva corónica, image 84, 1:67; image 83, 1:65. 154. See a silver candelabra in the Enrico Poli collection, unfortunately not reproduced in Tord, Arte e historia del Perú antiguo. 155. AAL, sección hechizerías, leg. 9, 5 (Lima, 1695). 156. For a different perspective, see Mills, Idolatry and Its Enemies, 243–66. 157. See AAL, sección hechizerías, leg. 4, 13 (San Lorenzo de Quinti, 1660); leg. 3, 15 (Huarochirí, 1660); and leg. 10, 6 (Huarochirí, 1700).

notes to pages 166–169  337 158. On Andean attitudes toward memoria during different stages of their history and in present times, see, for example, Kaulicke, Memoria y muerte en el Perú antiguo; Zuidema, “Mito e historia en el antiguo Perú,” 15–52; Julien, Reading Inca History; Randall, “Del tiempo y del río,” 69–94; Martínez, “Como recordar?,” 191–228; Abercrombie, Pathways of Memory and Power; and Rappaport, The Politics of Memory. 159. See, for example, AAL, sección hechizerías, leg. 10, 6 (Huarochirí, 1700). For a comprehensive mesa, see AAL, sección hechizerías, leg. 9, 3 (Ayaviri, 1692). 160. See, for example, the depiction in Guaman Poma, Nueva corónica, image 804, 2:657. It shows an old and poor indigenous “mayor, bellman, hangman” with his bag, a rosary, and two amulets. According to Guaman Poma, he was very poor and searched for acres of Illapa so as to grow some vegetables and fruits. Guaman Poma seems to argue that the church bestowed Catholic symbols on even the old and decrepit. 161. MP, 7:55–82, 69; Cabredo’s annual letter to Aquaviva on April 20, 1600, with reference to Cuzco. 162. Guaman Poma, Nueva corónica, image 827, 2:674; image 828, 2:676. 163. Pérez Bocanegra’s 1639 Confessionario in his Ritual formulario offers a good point of comparison between rituals documented in the visitation records of the central Andes and those performed by religious specialists in the southern Andes. These rituals differed in their performance, though not necessarily in their symbolic makeup. 164. See, for example, AAT, sección idolatrías, leg. DD-­1-­6 (Santiago de Cao, 1771). To call upon God became standard in northern rituals of healing; see, for example, AAT, sección idolatrías, DD-­1-­1 (Trujillo, 1752). 165. Tschopik, Magia en Chucuito, 142. To this day, various ethnographers in the southern highlands observe a general distrust of Catholicism. See Bastien, Moun­ tain of the Condor. 166. Some religious specialists from the Puno area nowadays include in their pagos or despachos (offerings) small leaden figures depicting saints, which are called chilches or chuilches. The saint in the middle is surrounded by different symbols for luck. At the end of a ceremony, the religious specialist burns these chilches along with the rest of the pago. 167. Sarmiento, History, 61, 101; Pachacuti, “Relación,” 269. The Relación de los agustinos de Huamachuco, 27, also reported on idols in the form of given figures (rather than plain stones). It seems that these figures of gods or men in Huamachuco were dressed, much like the Inca custom. 168. For the same interpretation by a modern scholar, see Duviols in Ayala, “Errores, ritos, supersticiones y ceremonias de los indios de la provincia de Chinchaycocha,” 275–97. 169. González Holguín, Vocabulario, s.v. “ylla.” 170. To this day, Kallawayas believe that yllas should be made of alabaster, which they believe is produced by a lightning bolt hitting the earth. See Bastien, “Good Luck Fetishes,” 352–61. 171. The Jesuit collection and use of bezoars are discussed in chapter 8. 172. A somewhat liberal translation of Villagómez, Carta pastoral, 56–58: “si an tenido o tienen en sus casas o en otras partes conopas, zaramamas para aumento del ganado o las piedras bezares que llaman illa o si las an adorado o adoran para el dicho

338  notes to pages 169–170 efecto y si con ellas tienen mulle, pariasto, sango, o otras ofrendas que los hacen.” See also Arriaga, Extirpación, 27, on bezoars as conopas. 173. González Holguín, Vocabulario, 249: “mullu” is a “concha colorada de la mar chaquira, o coral de la tierra.” See Mariscotti de Görlitz, Pachamama Santa Tierra, 87, who translates mullu as “amulet.” She follows a modern meaning. Chroniclers often referred to the fact that shells in the Inca regime had a value higher than gold. See Sarmiento, History, chap. 38, 118, and chap. 62, 167; Polo de Ondegardo, “Errores,” 37. He observed that ground and whole shells were used as offerings in different types of “sacrifices,” and he reproached Spaniards for profiting from the trade of these shells from Trujillo, since it supported indigenous idolatries. 174. The old notion of yllas is also still preserved among modern highland herders. Moreover, during the colonial period, Ylla was a common family name among the Quechua. See AAC, paquete 75 (LXXV), exp. 1, 8. 175. Diez de Betanzos (Narrative, 92) compares these representations of vegetables and livestock with the household gods normally displayed in Roman houses. 176. Conopas—made not of bezoars but of various types of actual stones, especially in the form of little llama figures—have survived the extirpators of idolatry to this day. 177. AAL, sección hechizerías, leg. 2, 6 (Yaután, 1646–48). The visitator found fat of llama and guinea pigs, coca leaves, human hair, different-­colored wool, maize flour, a stone from a huaca, and three corncobs (two white and one colored). One Indian had a conopa he called “mayguanco,” a crystal or crystalline stone he had owned for all his life and had always hidden from the visitators. He offered drinks and food to it, for he had received it from an old Inca woman (palla). When he went to Lima and took the conopa along, he once found four coins (patacones) in the plaza; on another occasion, a knife with which he killed a tiger. “Thus [the stone] gives a long life, provides riches, and makes women love men.” The interrogation concluded by calling the owner “es gran echisero.” In the end, Gerónimo Aquiviven was accused of having hidden conopas from other visitators. The fourth sermon in Avendaño, Ser­ mones, denounces huacas und conopas as the instruments of a demon’s deceit. Pre-­ Columbian cultures already treasured crystalline stones; see an example from the Moche culture in Museo Larco, 276. 178. AAL, sección hechizerías, leg. 5, 1 (Mangas, 1663). 179. Ibid.: “una en forma de un carnerito de la tierra; una papa, que tenian para el aumento de papas; una piedra grande de forma de riso del mar que era ydolo conopa para el aumento de mais.” 180. Fertility (often linked to water) is a dominant theme of many rituals during colonial times. See, for example, AAL, sección hechizerías, leg. 3, 9 (Huamantanga, 1650); leg. 5, 1 (Mangas, 1663); leg. 6, 1 (Ondores, 1668); and the Visitas y procesos de Bernado de Noboa (1656) in Duviols, Procesos y visitas de idolatrías, 172. Duviols reprints a prayer to “father conopa” that offers the following: “Padre conopa, da fuerza vital a la gente . . . danos alimentos, y danos todo lo necesario” (790). 181. See Flores Ochoa’s works and Ricard Lanata, Ladrones de sombra. 182. On fat in healing rituals, see chapter 6. See Arriaga, Extirpación, 45, on the use in offerings: “Bira, que es sebo de los carneros de la tierra es tambíen ofrenda, el qual queman delante de las guacas, y conopas.” On a different interpretation of fat in offerings, provided by the Spaniards, see chapter 7.

notes to pages 171–175  339 183. Compare Flores Ochoa, “Enqa, enacaychu, illa y Huya Rumi,” 245–62; and “Y estas idolatrias no pudieron ser extirpadas,” 195–210; and Lanata, Ladrones de sombra, for example, 78. 184. Pérez Bocanegra, Ritual formulario, 129. Today, cholas, the mestizo market vendors in Cuzco, put the herb ruda (rue) next to their sales booths. 185. An example of rituals to bring water can be found in AAL, sección hechizerías, leg. 6, 1 (Ondores, 1668). 186. AAL, sección hechizerías, leg. 5, 11 (Laraos, 1665). 187. Ibid. 188. See also AAL, sección hechizerías, leg. 2a, 14 (Atavillos Altos, 1659); leg. 5, 11 (Laraos, 1665). With respect to other kinds of assimilations, it is similarly problematic to detect a shift from an Andean to a Catholic meaning. In 1659, one religious specialist, Diego Gaxa Guaman from San Joseph de Churillo, called the powders he used for his healings “aleluia.” Yet the powders and how he used them, and thus their meanings in the ritual, were still Andean. See AAL, sección hechizerías, leg. 3, 22 (San Joseph del Chorillo, 1659). 189. See also Polo de Ondegardo (“Errores,” 40), who was already complaining in the 1560s that some hechizeras “echan sus bendiciones sobre el enfermo, santiguandose, dizen ay Dios, Jesus[.]” He considered them worse than the traditional hechizeros. 190. On the spiritual foundations of rituals and their transformation, see Albó, “Preguntas a las historiadores desde los ritos andinos actuales,” 395–438. 191. For example, Christian invocations appear in despachos for Pachamama performed by altomisayuqs from the Ausangate region or by those belonging to the Qeros (as of 2008). On the role of saints in modern-­day beliefs and in society, see Morote Best, “Dios, la Virgen y los santos,” 76–104; and Fernández Juárez, “El banquete aymara,” 159. 192. See also AAL, sección hechizerías, 3, 15 (Huarochirí, 1660). Here, religious specialists heal an indigenous woman with herbs and by making her offer two reals to Our Father and Our Mother. The old place of worship on top of a nearby mountain was also still in use.

Chapter six 1. The visitas in the Cajatambo province from the late seventeenth century greatly demonstrate rituals being performed in the context of fertility, as do the cartas an­ nuas of the Jesuits throughout the seventeenth century. See Duviols, Procesos, e.g., 177, 180, 193. See Polia Meconi, Cosmovisión; Pérez Bocanegra, Ritual formulario, 132; and Villagómez, Carta pastoral, 57. For one example among many from the central Andes, see AAL, sección hechizerías, leg. 2, 6 (Yaután, 1646–48). Here, a stone huaca was regularly given to drink for it was said that the stone was responsible for increasing the livestock. An example from the late colonial period is AAL, sección hechizerías, leg. 12, 4 (Carampoma, 1730). 2. AAL, sección hechizerías, leg. 3, 9 (Huamantanga, 1650). Today, in the southern Andes, poco could be poq’oy, a stone that belongs to a huaca and brings about fertility. Llacsa could be llasa, which means “heavy” and “strong.” 3. Examples of the “feeding” of huacas in colonial times are plentiful. See, for ex-

340  notes to pages 176–177 ample, AAL, sección hechizerías, leg. 3, 1 (Yaulí, 1650); leg. 3, 2 (Yaulí, 1650). “Feedings” and offerings could also be directed toward the Earth, in later times revered as Pachamama; see AAL, sección hechizerías, leg. 4, 2 (Ambar, 1662), for the testimony of Maria Julia, who said she gave food to the earth. 4. AAL, sección hechicerías, leg. 6, 1 (Ondores, 1668). Examples of sacrifices of llamas abound in Inca history. See, among others, Pachacuti, “Relación,” 249; and Molina, “Relación,” 80. 5. According to most chroniclers, blood was a standard item in Inca ceremonies as well as in local Andean customs under Inca tutelage; it was used either for divination (see Cieza, Crónica, 376) or as an offering to the mightiest huacas (see Santacruz, “Relación,” 249; and Guaman Poma, Nueva corónica, image 278, 1:207). 6. AAL, sección hechizerías (Carampona, 1730). 7. In his study Idolatry and Its Enemies, Mills concentrates on the functions of the religious specialists in matters of love, hatred, and huaca worship, and does not provide detailed accounts of healing. The first studies of colonial Andean healers in the central and southern highlands (Griffiths, La cruz y la serpiente, 131–89, and “Andean Curanderos and Their Repressors,” 185–98; and Silverblatt, “The Evolution of Witchcraft and the Meaning of Healing,” 413–27) have not focused on the symbolic dimensions of the instruments employed in healing rituals. 8. See AAL, sección hechizerías, leg. 3, 9 (Huamantanga, 1650). Modern south Peruvian Andean peasants distinguish between the altomisayuq, the pampami­ sayuq, and the watuq, the one who divines (see Ricard Lanata, Ladrones de sombra, 145). In seventeenth-­century testimonies, however, these distinctions are rarely seen. 9. AAL, sección hechizerías, leg. 3, 9 (Huamantanga, 1650); leg. 3, 15 (Huarochirí, 1660); leg. 4, 13 (Quinti, 1660). 10. This information comes from AAL, sección hechizerías, leg. 2a, 6 (Quinti, 1660). See also AAL, sección hechizerías, leg. 4, 13 (Quinti, 1660); a similar episode was mentioned in Polo de Ondegardo, “Errores,” 33. 11. The Quechua reads: “Aia capac tu Inca a allia apachu.” 12. See Guaman Poma, Nueva corónica, image 278, 1:195, on new pots (in Quechua, arimanca) as instruments of hechizeros. On pots that contained the hechizeros’ instruments, see also Polo de Ondegardo, “Errores,” 28, 32. On the symbolic power of sacred items arranged along (sometimes straight) lines and on the symbolic power of a fourfold division of Andean space, compare in particular the Cusco ceque system. See Zuidema, The Ceque System of Cuzco; and with new insights, Bauer, The Sacred landscape of the Inca. For a discussion of ritual arrangements in modern mesas, see also Wachtel, Le retour des ancêstres, 151–92; and Martínez, Una mesa ritual. 13. On coca divination, see AAL, sección hechizerías, leg. 3, 9 (Huamantanga, 1650). Talking to and with coca leaves also appears in AAL, sección hechizerías, leg. 8, 2 (Chupaca, 1689–94). In the latter case spiders were associated with Santiago. In Inca times, divining from the bowels of a human being was held to have been the invention of Mama Huaco. See Betanzos, Narrative, 16. A slightly different account can be found in Guaman Poma, Nueva corónica, image 121, 1:96. In Inca history and in colonial times, we have references to divination only from the bowels of a guinea pig and llamas. On diviners in Inca society, see also Molina, “Relación,” 63, 80. Polo de Ondegardo (“Errores,” 113) claimed that inspecting guinea pigs was a standard procedure, particularly in the Chinchaysuyo. Last but not least, the Huarochirí Manu-

notes to pages 177–181  341 script reports on divining from the bowels (chap. 18, p. 96, and chap. 19, p. 99). For further personal attestation of acts of divination from the colonial period, see AAL, sección hechizerías, leg. 4, 13 (Quinti, 1660); leg. 8, 6 (Junín, 1690); AAT, sección idolatrías, leg. DD-­1-­5 (Moche, 1771). 14. AAL, sección hechizerías, leg. 9, 3 (Ayaviri, 1692). 15. AAL, sección hechizerías, leg. 8, 2 (Chupaca, 1689–94). Guaman Poma referred to the practice of using left-­spun threads so as to induce harm and sickness. See Guaman Poma, Nueva corónica, image 275, 1:204–5. The left was thus apparently associated with something negative. In the surroundings of Cuzco around 1630, “left” also had a negative connotation and “right” a positive one. See Peréz Bocanegra, Ritual y formulario, 128 (questions 23 and 29). 16. See, for example, AAL, sección hechizerías, leg. 1, 4 (Lima, 1617). 17. AAL, sección hechizerías, leg. 8, 2 (Chupaca, 1689–94), 139v. 18. In the healings undertaken by one Don Juan, who also relied on Santiago, the patient was likewise made to cover the face with a lliclla (for she was not allowed to see the approaching Santiago). AAL, sección hechizerías, leg. 8, 2 (Chupaca, 1689–94). 19. Another example of the grinding of salubrious stones appears in AAL, sección hechizerías, leg. 3, 9 (Huamantanga, 1650). 20. This same kind of ritual, which consists of arranging coca leaves around a coin of silver, is still practiced among ritual specialists in the Ausangate region. See Ricard Lanata, Ladrones de sombra, 145. A modern anthropologist might view the two coca leaves used for the purpose of divination as analogous to the coca-­k’intu, the three coca leaves that native highlanders offer as signs of respect to huacas and to other human beings (see, for example, Bolin, Rituals of Respect, 15). Likewise, Santiago as Illapa is to this day the provider of powers to the altomisayuq or similar high-­status ritual specialists. 21. Other healers also relied on Santiago; see the testimonies of Domingo Sopiano and Maria Vitoria in AAL, sección hechizerías, leg. 8, 2 (Chupaca, 1689–94). 22. AAL, sección hechizerías, leg. 3, 9 (Huamantanga, 1650). See León Fernández, Evangelización y control social, who also offers a transcription of this visitation case. 23. AAL, sección hechizerías, leg. 3, 15 (Huarochirí, 1660). 24. AAL, sección hechizerías, leg. 4, 20 (San Lorenzo de Quinti, 1660). 25. Cobo (Historia del nuevo mundo, 1:150) said that llimpi referred to azogue (mercury). On the transfer of one huaca to another place, see also the data on Porco in Charcas, in Platt and Bouysse-­Cassagne, Qaraqara-­Charka, 139. 26. Because of the nature of testimonies—often, neither the sick nor the healing expert being questioned precisely specify the symbolic meaning attached to the items employed—a narrative reconstruction of an “ideal” type of Andean healing during the colonial period seems appropriate. Spanish and Creole interrogations frequently sought to establish “facts” rather than reasons, and Andean answers often followed the pattern “It was done, because it had always been done like that,” rendering futile any preoccupation with the question “why.” Without doubt, many of the testimonies leave the historian’s inquiries unanswered and provide little help in reconstructing the precise meaning of an object in a symbolic cosmos. 27. See AAL, sección hechizerías, leg. 8, 2 (Chupacas, 1689–94), 86 (payment for the healer Don Juan). 28. See, for example, AAL, sección hechizerías, leg. 8, 2 (Chupaca, 1689–94).

342  notes to pages 181–183 29. See the previous example of Juan Camac and the testimonies of healers in leg. 8, 2 (Chupacas, 1689–94). 30. AAL, sección hechizerías, leg. 1, 17 (Lima, Trujillo, 1610); leg. 9, 3 (Ayaviri, 1692). 31. For individuals rubbed with fat, see AAL, sección hechizerías, leg. 3, 2 (Yaulí, 1650). Healings with guinea pigs are discussed later in this chapter. 32. On colonial usages of sebo (fat)—most often in the context of healings—see AAL, sección hechizerías, leg. 2, 6 (Yaután, 1646–48); leg. 3, 2 (Yaulí, 1650); leg. 3, 9 (Huamantanga, 1650); leg. 4, 2 (Ambar, 1662); leg. 4, 13 (San Lorenzo de Quinti, 1660); leg. 5, 1 (Mangas, 1663); leg. 10, 8 (Yaulí, 1699); leg. 10, 6 (Huarochirí, 1700). In Dioscorides as well as in European folk medicine, animal fat was likewise employed as a remedy. 33. AAL, sección hechizerías, leg. 3, 9 (Huamantanga, 1650). 34. According to Guaman Poma, Nueva corónica, image 279, 1:179, Inca priests put fat and blood in their mouths and then blew them toward the huacas. 35. AAL, sección hechizerías, leg. 8, 6 (Junín, 1690). 36. AAL, sección hechizerías, leg. 8, 2 (Chupaca, 1689–94). Here, the healer Don Juan also argued that three pigs would die in place of a woman. Domingo Sopiano and Maria Vitoria testified that the guinea pig died after striking the body of a sick patient. See also Duviols, Procesos, 194, for the ritual of rubbing the sick with a guinea pig as practiced by the Andean religious specialists from the region of Cajatambo. On a modern use of guinea pigs and on its meaning among southern Andean healers, see Ricard Lanata, Ladrones de sombra, 187. 37. AAL, sección hechizerías, leg. 3, 9 (Huamantanga, 1650). 38. AAL, sección hechizerías, leg. 5, 1 (Mangas, 1663). 39. As Polo de Ondegardo (“Errores,” 37) observed, gold, hair, maize, fat, chicha, and coca leaves were standard offerings during the sixteenth century. 40. AAL, sección hechizerías, leg. 9,3 (Ayaviri, 1692). 41. AAL, sección hechizerías, leg. 9, 3 (Ayaviri, 1692), provides rare evidence of the healer arranging items in a mesa or the equivalent, though it does not describe the order of their placement (today a highly complex procedure). For analyses of modern-­ day mesas among different cultural and ethnic groups, see Fernández Juárez, Entre la repugnancia y la seducción; Flores Ochoa, “La missa andina,” 717–28; Wachtel, Le retour des ancêstres, 151–92; Polia Meconi, “La mesa curanderil,” 23–53; Martínez, Una mesa ritual; and Rösing, White, Grey and Black Kallawaya Healing Rituals. 42. See, for example, AAL, sección hechizerías, leg. 3, 2 (Yaulí, 1650). 43. We still lack insights into how Inca religion changed the landscape of Andean regional cults. Diez de Betanzos reported that Inca Yupanqui initiated the custom that every Andean household should craft a zaramama, a figure of “mother maize,” to use it as a household “idol” (Betanzos, Narrative, 92); also on the zaramama (or mamazara) see Polo de Ondegardo, “Errores,” 20. For the meaning of maize, maize cakes, and corncobs in Inca society, see also Molina, “Relación,” 63, referring to achi­ cocs who used maize and llama dung for divination; and similarly Polo de Ondegardo, “Errores,” 31. In the Inca calendar, the month of April was devoted to festivities pertaining to the harvest of maize from the Sausuro field, used for chicha (Molina, “Relación,” 118). Betanzos (Narrative, 51) reported on Inca Yupanqui’s storehouses for maize. In Inca times, maize cakes were offered to huacas and given to forasteros (Acosta, Natural and Moral History, book 5, chap. 23, 300–1; Pachacuti, “Relación,”

notes to pages 183–187  343 252). For maize cakes, or zancos, offered in northern Andean rituals, see Relación de los agustinos, 11, 41. On offerings of maize to huacas during the seventeenth century, see, for example, AAL, sección hechizerías, leg. 2, 6 (Yaután, 1646–48); leg. 6, 1 (Ondores, 1668); leg. 3, 2 (Yaulí, 1650); leg. 8, 6 (Junín, 1690); and for Trujillo see AAL, 1, 17 (Trujillo, 1610) and AAT DD-­1-­5 (Moche, 1771). High esteem for maize can also be inferred from Duviols, Procesos, 173 (San Francisco de Caxamarquilla, 1656). 44. See, for example, Álvarez, De las costumbres, 128. See also Cobo, Historia del nuevo mundo, 238, on the offerings to huacas: “plumas, frutillas medicinales, sebo de llama, polvos.” For later colonial times, see references in chapter 7. 45. See Peréz Bocanegra, Ritual y formulario, 130 (question 43). 46. See, for example, AAL, sección hechizerías, leg. 8, 6 (Junín, 1690). See also AAL, sección hechizerías, leg. 2, 6 (Yaután, 1646–48): the visitator was to be appeased with colored powders. Certain powders seem to have been appreciated for their calming effects. For this function in the context of a Spanish ritual specialist, see AHN, Inquisición, Tribunal de Lima, lib. 1028 (1587–98), fol. 505r: Francisca Ximénez used indigenous powders to calm down another person. 47. Relación de los agustinos, 12, 33; Betanzos, Narrative, 46; Polo de Ondegardo, “Errores,” 16; Guaman Poma, Nueva corónica, images 269–73, 1:202–3; Murúa, His­ toria general, 429; Huarochirí Manuscript, chap. 1, 45. On the use of chicha during colonial times, see, for example, AAL, sección hechizerías, leg. 1, 17 (Trujillo, 1610); leg. 1, 11 (Carhuamayo, 1631); leg. 2, 6 (Yaután, 1646–48); and leg. 5, 1 (San Francisco de Mangas, 1661). 48. AAL, sección hechizerías, leg. 3, 16 (San Lorenzo de Quinti, 1660). 49. For an example of the guinea pig as offering, see AAL, sección hechizerías, leg. 6, 1 (Ondores, 1668). 50. See also the healer Don Juan in AAL, sección hechizerías, leg. 8, 2 (Chupaca, 1689–94). 51. Polo de Ondegardo, “Errores,” 32. 52. See, for example, Duviols, Procesos, 173. 53. Tomoeda, “Curanderos urbanos,” 189–98; Cáceres, Si crees, los apus te curan; Bernand, Enfermedad, daño e ideologia; Valdizán and Maldonado, La medicina popular peruana; and Bastien and Donahue, Health in the Andes. 54. Explicit references to the cause of sickness were given only when the healer blamed maleficios. When sickness was seen as resulting from a perceived disharmony between patient and huaca, its cause might be attributed to a huaca’s being “enojado.” See also Pérez Bocanegra, Ritual formulario, 136, question 100. 55. See, for example, Ricard Lanata, Ladrones de sombra, 167–89. An exception appears in AAL, sección hechizerías, leg. 9, 3 (Ayaviri, 1692); the curandero Juan Flores healed disquiet and fear. 56. Delrío, Disquisitionum magicarum libri sex (1640), 80. 57. See, for example, AAL, sección hechizerías, leg. 2, 6 (Yaután, 1646); leg. 3, 21 (Atavillos Altos, 1659). 58. AAL, sección hechizerías, leg. 3, 21 (Atavillos Altos, 1659). 59. In colonial Quechua, “caitam coiqui caitan chhasqui pamai.” 60. On grinding coca leaves for healing purposes, see also Anna Maria Anazco’s testimony in AAL, sección hechizerías, leg. 8, 2 (Chupaca, 1689–94). In the late sixteenth century, chroniclers already observed offerings of ground shells. On powders

344  notes to pages 187–188 made from almejas (clam shell) and mollo, see Murúa, Historia general, 420; and Sarmiento, History, chap. 62, 167. 61. AAL, sección hechizerías, leg. 3, 22 (Cuenca, 1659). 62. AAL, sección hechizerías, leg. 3, 9 (Huamantanga, 1650). 63. AAL, sección hechizerías, leg. 6, 1a (Ondores, 1668); leg. 8, 6 (Junín, 1690). 64. Polo de Ondegardo (“Errores,” 39) refers to feathers called paucar and pillco parihuana. Molina in his “Relación” is the most explicit chronicler of the use of feathers during Inca times. Murúa (Historia general, 442) mentions the sacrifice of different colored feathers. In the colonial world, which saw both major social upheavals and ongoing worship of Andean sacred sites, feathers remained highly esteemed objects in religious specialists’ rituals, with manifold functions. They served as oblations for the remaining huacas. Each religious specialist used different kinds of feathers, depending on what they inherited and where they lived. Some religious specialists used feathers from puna birds; others, from Amazonian birds. Hernando Carvachin offered the feathers of the reddish bird called tinia to his esteemed huaca. In Concepción de Chupas in 1614, the visitator Luis de Mora y Águila confiscated a multitude of feathers. In Ambar, near Cajatambo, in 1662, the visitators confiscated a healer’s bundle that contained a bird and a worm. A woman in Yautan was forced to account for “a bundle with feathers of different birds, another bundle with llama fat and white maize, and many pieces of herbs and six stones, three round blue ones and three yellow and white ones.” However, she did not explain what she used these feathers for. In the hispanicized village of San Pedro de Acas, indigenous inhabitants used feathers to adorn their mallquis, perhaps believing that doing so would facilitate the voyage into the afterlife. Obviously, feathers functioned in a number of different rituals, but colonial testimonies from the indigenous world do not allow us to determine whether feathers or certain birds expressed the belief—as shown in chapter 3—that religious specialists’ extraordinary powers were thus associated with farsightedness and the notion of restoring life with the help of huacas. For the employment of feathers in Andean rituals, see AAL, sección hechizerías, leg. 4, 2 (Ambar, 1662); leg. 3, 9 (Huamantanga, 1650); leg. 2, 6 (Yaután, 1646); leg. 5, 16 (Acas, late 1667). 65. It is known that the color red was particularly valued by both the pre-­Inca and Inca cultures. See Shimada, Cultura Sicán; Calancha, Crónica moralizada, 90; Carcedo de Mufarech and Vetter Parodi, “Usos de minerales y metales a través de las crónicas,” 185; and, in particular, Siracusano, El poder de los colores. Because of the focus of this book, we concentrate on the color white, which appears most often in seventeenth-­century testimonies. To create an unambiguous map of the symbolic meanings of other colors (as well as of feathers) during colonial times would require further investigation, answering such questions as whether red predominated in colonial textiles, and whether a red feather had a different meaning than a blue or yellow one. 66. AHN, libro 1027, fol. 134. 67. Relación de los agustinos, 11. 68. Murúa, Galvin Manuscript, 111v. 69. Acevedo Basurto and Benavides, Tejidos milenarios del Perú. Compare Phipps, “Garments and Identity in the Colonial Andes,” 17–39. White was associated with silver; see Calancha, Crónica moralizada, 90.

notes to pages 188–191  345 70. See Molina, “Relación,” 72, on the sacrifices of the tarpuntaes in July in honor of Viracocha; and 79, on the sacrifice of cuyllo (white llamas) in honor of Viracocha. See also Flores Ochoa, “Classification et dénomination de camélidos sud-­americains,” 1006–16. 71. Relación de los agustinos, 33. Yellow powders by the name of carguamuqui were also used in healing rituals in Huamantanga (AAL, sección hechizerías, leg. 3, 9 [Huamantanga, 1650]). 72. Relación de los agustinos, 23. See also Murúa, Historia general, 441, on the practice of painting one’s face with colors, using, among other things, espinco, ciaya, other earthen colors, and fire. 73. See, for example, AAL, sección hechizerías, leg. 3, 2 (Yaulí, 1650). 74. Cieza de León, Crónica, 376: a huaca appeared as a man dressed in white clothes. 75. According to Jesuit accounts it was often Santiago—dressed in white—who appeared to religious specialists. See MP, 7:103, from Chuquisaca; Carta annua 1610, 502–3, from Julí. Here the demon is said to have dressed in linen. 76. AAL, sección hechicerías, leg. 4, 13 (Quinti, 1660). 77. AAL, sección hechicerías, leg. 5, 16 (Acas, late 1667). 78. Guaman Poma, Nueva corónica, image 403, 1:309. 79. AAL, sección hechizerías, leg. 3, 2 (Yaulí, 1650); leg. 6, 1a (Acurado, 1668); leg. 8, 6 (Junín, 1690). 80. AAL, sección hechicerías, leg. 3, 1 (Yaulí, 1650); leg. 2a, 14 (Atavillos Altos, 1659). 81. AAL, sección hechicerías, 8, 6 (Junín, 1690). 82. Polo de Ondegardo, “Errores,” 15; Molina, “Relación.” 83. AAL, sección hechicerías, leg. 6, 1a (Ondores, 1668). 84. AAL, sección hechicerías, leg. 10, 6 (Huarochirí, 1700). 85. See, for example, AAL, sección hechizerías, leg. 1, 17 (Lima, Trujillo, 1610); leg. 2, 6 (Yaután, 1646–48). 86. AAT, sección idolatrías, DD-­1-­5 (Moche, 1771). 87. Huarochirí Manuscript, chap. 16, p. 93n399. 88. AAL, sección hechizerías, leg. 3, 2 (Yaulí, 1650). The healer rubbed the sick person’s body with black and white maize. See also AAT, sección idolatrías, leg. DD-­1-­6 (Santiago de Cao, 1771). Sometimes “idols” were black and white; see AAL, sección hechizerías, leg. 3, 9 (Huamantanga, 1650). This pairing of colors was not reported in every case, either because it was not always present or because it was not always noticed. On the use of black and white materials among the Incas, see Classen, Inca Cosmology and the Human Body. 89. Cobo, Historia del nuevo mundo, 2:229. The colonial usage of white affected mestizo and Spanish ritual specialists, who are reported to have used white maize for healing purposes during the late seventeenth century. 90. AAL, sección hechizerías, leg. 3, 2 (Yaulí, 1650). 91. AAL, sección hechizerías, leg. 2, 6 (Yaután, 1646–48). 92. AAL, sección hechizerías, leg. 4, 13 (Quinti, 1660). 93. AAL, sección hechizerías, leg. 6, 1 (Ondores, 1668). 94. In 1648, Solórzano Pereira, in his Político indiana, already referred to an indigenous belief in the revival of the Inca. See Mujica Pinilla, “Hell in the Andes,” 193; and especially Cahill, “El visitador general Areche,” 85–111.

346  notes to pages 192–196

Chapter seven 1. Whenever Jesuits heard of a sick person in their mission, they approached that person with their sacraments. Arriaga (Extirpación, 110) referred to a little locket containing the Blessed Sacraments that was used by those priests who traveled from one parish to another. 2. In many reports, Jesuits presented hechizeros as healers who relied exclusively on demons; for example, see ARSI, Perú, 19: 258–62, Fabian de Ayala’s report about his mission in Chinchaycocha in 1614; and 14:59r, in Huaylas in 1617. One master at drawing indirect and direct analogies between the Christian Bible and indigenous practices was Ludovico Bertonio. In explaining that Jesus was more than a regular healer—and thereby suggesting that hechizeros should not be consulted—he referred to the holy woman who had wrapped Christ in herbs instead of linen. Bertonio thus creatively adopted Jesuit interests in plants and customs, and combined them with a missionary zeal. Bertonio, Libro de la vida y milagros de nuestro Señor Iesu Christo, 445. See also Prieto, Missionary Scientists, 62–87, for Chile and Paraguay. 3. See, for example, ARSI, Perú, 15:229 (1649). On the Jesuit metaphor as healers, see chapter 1. On Jesuits providing medical expertise among native people, see chapter 8. 4. For the steps and outcomes of this process, see AAL, sección hechizerías, leg. 7, 7 (Lima, 1670); leg. 11, 4 (Lima, 1719); and the arguments of defensors of Indians documented in the episcopal archive of Trujillo (AAT, sección idolatrías, DD-­1-­5 [Moche, 1771], among others). 5. Some factors may have been political: see Mills, Idolatry and Its Enemies, 137– 70, 243–85. He also argues that the decreasing interest in the persecution of hechi­ zería was tied to conversion. 6. ARP, Corregimiento, leg. 202, exp. 4426. See chapter 8. For Llata, see AAL, sección hechizerías, leg. 11, 6a (1723); and for Arahuay, see AAL, sección hechizerías, leg. 12, 6 (1741). 7. Molina, “Relación,” 54. Compare Urbano, Wiracocha y Ayar, xxvii. 8. Molina, “Relación,” 62. On the variety of plants in the Andes, see Herrera, “Nomenclatura indígena de las plantas.” 9. Sarmiento, History, 66–69; and Pachacuti, “Relación,” 253. 10. Sarmiento, History, 68. 11. Pachacuti, “Relación,” 259. A similar report on an Inca “extirpator of idolatries” can be found in Yupanqui, Instrucción; and Betanzos, Narrative, 231–34. 12. Pachacuti, “Relación,” 257: “El dicho Matacapacynga era gran sabio, que abia conocido todas las medicinas, assi como todos los venideros y tiempos futuros.” 13. By following this trajectory, we can disregard Molina’s and Pachacuti’s analogies to the book of Genesis and to Catholic extirpation of idolatry campaigns. Today, herbal knowledge in the southern Andes has yet again become a focus of indigenous identity. See, for example, Arce de la Colina, Herbolario de los Incas. 14. Vega, Royal Commentaries, 70. 15. Ibid., 76. 16. Guaman Poma, Nueva corónica, image 274, 1:203. See also Polo de Ondegardo, “Errores,” 29.

notes to pages 196–197  347 17. Guaman Poma, Nueva corónica, image 303, 1:229. See also Córdoba Mexía, “Información,” 268–88. The zankay poses its own riddle to the investigating historian. There, toads, foxes, snakes, and other animals probed the delinquent. In other early colonial testimonies, however, snakes, for example, could have both good and evil traits. Compare Sarmiento, History, 101. Under Christian influence, the snake increasingly acquired a purely negative connotation (Pachacuti, Relación, 277, 280; Guaman Poma, Nueva corónica, images 50, 74, 275, 1:40, 275, 193). 18. Murúa, Códice Murúa, 107r; in the transcription it reads: “por ser tan gran echicera y consentir lo que [hace da] [suggestion of the editor] ponzoña con que maten a los yndios de esta tierra.” The second inscription of Guaman Poma says: “la que da ponzoña para matar a los yndios.” 19. Murúa, Galvin manuscript, 110r: “un personaje que es denominado hambicamayo y herbolario. En el plato donde estan sus pócimas se dice ‘Este es por donde sacaba los unguentos’” and “Hambicamayo fue gran echicero y erbolario. Indio Guancavelica.” 20. Polo de Ondegardo, “Errores,” 28: “en hazer confectiones de yervas, y rayzes para matar al que las dán. Y unas yervas y rayzes ay que matan en mucho tiempo, otras en poco conforme á la confectión y mezcla que hazen.” 21. See Acosta’s annual letter of 1576 in his Obras, 269. See also Sarmiento, His­ toria, 129. 22. This suspicion was nourished by the Spaniards’ and Creoles’ general tendency to see conspiracies when viewing indigenous people and their “idolatries.” See, for example, Acuña, “Relación fecha por el corregidor de los Chunbibilcas,” 310–21, 312; and Pablos, “Relación que envio a mandar su magestad se hiziese desta ciudad de Cuenca y de toda su provincia,” 268. 23. Cárdenas, Problemas y secretos maravillosos de las Indias, 236. 24. González Holguín, Vocabulario, 241, 537 (translating “curumaycun” as “dar gusanos”; recall Molina’s account of the Taki Onkoy in chapter 2), 547, 636. 25. Carta annua 1606, Julí, 219. 26. See ARSI, Perú, 19, f. 22 (1602 mission among the Pilcoxones); 145, f. 130 (1618: Juan de Soto on the missions to the Mojos accompanied by ninety soldiers). 27. See, for example, Ganson, “The Evueví of Paraguay,” 461–88. The Araucans, for example, were famed for their violent resistance and their great hechizeros. I was unable to find more evidence on these hechizeros for the seventeenth century. The ideal of the martyr was more prominent among the Franciscans. For late colonial examples, see the depictions in Santa Rosa de Ocopa. 28. One such martyr was Bernardo Reus, whom the Chunchos killed in 1629 (some of his letters are preserved in the Provincial archive of the Jesuits in Lima). 29. See AAL, sección hechizerías, leg. 2, 5 (Yaután, 1646); leg. 3, 3 (Huarmey, 1650); leg. 4, 11 (San Lorenzo de Quinti, 1661); leg. 7, 15 (Pararín, 1677); leg. 8, 6 (Junín, 1690); leg. 9, 5 (Lima, 1695). For criticism of this position, see AAT, sección idolatrías, DD-­ 1-­6 (Santiago de Cao, 1771); DD-­1-­7 (Lucma, 1774). 30. AAC, caja IX, paquete 3, exp. 53. A similar case is documented in AAL, sección hechizerías, leg. 9, 5 (Lima, 1695). 31. Fernández Juárez, “El banquete Aymara,” 171. It is validated by Ricard Lanata, Ladrones de sombra, 147. 32. Information from Nasario Turpe Condori, August 2005. Among the Aymara,

348  notes to pages 197–199 a similar ritual by the name of Ch’iyara misa serves to return the evil to the one who sent it. 33. Also in contrast to Calancha, Crónica moralizada, 377–78, who reasoned that the herbolario and the hechizero were two distinct offices in the Inca Empire. 34. González Holguín, Vocabulario, 433, 543. 35. Vocabulario, s.v. “hampi.” 36. In 1621, when Pedro Sayo from Trujillo was forced to give an account of his knowledge in front of Juan de Teste in Lima, the questioning concentrated on his knowledge of beneficial and of poisonous plants. Pedro Sayo denied familiarity with poisonous plants. He had long worked in service of the Augustinians, and the visitator took him at his word. AAL, sección hechizerías, leg. 1, 7 (Lima, 1621). 37. Vargas Ugarte, Concilios limenses, 97–257, esp. 213. 38. To distinguish between the good and the magical healer has a long European precedent. See Pliny, Historia naturalis, books 29 and 30, the latter with a long list of recipes of objectionable magical cures. See del Campo’s Franciscan predecessor in Spain, Martín de Castañega, in his Tratado, 75–83. See Tavárez, The Invisible War, 94–95. 39. Lastres, Historia de la medicina peruana, vol. 2; Lanning, “The Illicit Practice of Medicine,” 141–79. 40. The first protomedicato was Hernando de Sepúlveda, appointed in 1537. 41. A concern about reliability dominated seventeenth-­century Creole perceptions of indigenous healers. See AAL, sección hechizerías, 5, 11 (Laraos, 1665). And yet, even Spaniards and Creoles occasionally tried the ultimate remedy: consultation with an indigenous religious specialist (AAL, sección hechizerías, leg. 5, 16 [Acas, 1667]). 42. Guaman Poma, Nueva corónica, image 826, 2:676. 43. The first diploma earned by a medical doctor in Cuzco was awarded in 1745. Complaints about the lack of chairs of medicine were constant, as documented in AUM, document no. 14, Estado de la universidad que manda pedir el virrey principe de Esquilache 1619 (1619). See also AGI, Lima, 337; BNM, MS 2939, fol. 183 (1623). For a brief sketch of the history of medicine in Cuzco, see Villanueva Urteaga, Fundación de la Universidad Nacional de San Antonio Abad. 44. See Griffiths’s introduction to Griffiths and Cervantes, Spiritual Encounters, 1–42; and the Siete partidas. 45. Castañega, Tratado, 61, 75, 78. A third kind of approved healer used herbs but transformed them into talismans—for example, advising a patient to tie an acorn around his or her neck to lower a fever. Spaniards considered even this species of folk healer as legitimate but dangerously close to demonic magic. 46. See the introduction to Sahagún, Historia general de las cosas de Nueva España. 47. On Spanish interests in New World fauna, see Barrera, Experiencing Nature, and “Local Herbs, Global Medicines,” 163–81. 48. Bustamente García, “Francisco Hernández, Plinio del Nuevo Mundo,” 243–69; and Solominos D’Ardois, “Francisco Hernández in New Spain,” 402–6. 49. The literature on European interest in foreign herbs is abundant; see Smith and Findlen, Merchants and Marvels; Anagnostou, Jesuiten in Spanisch-­Amerika;

notes to pages 199–200  349 Schiebinger and Swan, Colonial Botany; Sauer, “Changing Perception and Exploitation of New World Plants in Europe,” 813–30; and the articles in Ordahl Kupperman’s America in European Consciousness. Explorers brought back new specimens from the New World; Charles L’Ecluse thanked Sir Francis Drake in his Exoticorum libri decem (5, 83, and 329) and named one such specimen Drakena radix (contrayerva root). 50. Libellus de medicinalibus indorum herbis. 51. Monardes, La historia medicinal, 44, 48, 93, 89 (on coca, granadilla, yerva del sol, arbol que muestra si uno a de morir o bivir). See Herrera, “Plantas que curan y plantas que matan de la flora del departamento del Cuzco,” 73–128, who refers to Osma’s letter to Monardes from December 26, 1568. The letter is also mentioned in Charles L’Ecluse’s edition of Monardes, Exoticorum libri decem. 52. European scholars immediately took an interest in the plant, learning more from Monardes (La historia medicinal, 89) and L’Ecluse (Exoticorum libri decem, 350). 53. Even though Cieza de León’s interest in herbs was ephemeral, he wrote more about them than any other Peruvian chronicler. See Cieza de León, Crónica, 339, 364–66. Cieza praised the healing properties of a plant called “zarzaparrilla” (Aralia nudicaulis), found on a little island off the coast of Guayaquil, as particularly effective. He was convinced of its usefulness to treat symptoms of the plague and therefore applied all his personal authority in announcing his “discovery”: “and I am convinced that it is one of the best roots or herbs on earth, and a most salubrious one which the many people prove whom this herb has cured” (Cieza de León, Crónica, 231–33; quotation, 233). In another instance, the chronicler wrote at length on the tree called molle (Schinus molle, the pepper tree, in the family Anacardiaceae). Molle was considered a relief for swollen—perhaps even traveling soldiers’—legs. Cieza went on to refer to an unnamed liana used for purges and mentioned an unspecified plant from Andahuayllas used for cleaning the teeth. Finally, as if bored, he summarized, “There are many other herbs in these parts, which benefit human health, and others just as toxic that kill with one dose” (Cieza de León, Crónica, 366). On the Spanish interest in nature, see also MacCormack, On the Wings of Time, 137–69. 54. See, for example, Pablos, “Relación que envio a mandar su magestad se hiziese desta ciudad de Cuenca,” 205–30. 55. Peruvian plants included in the collections of European botanists were villca, molle, coca, maize, granadilla, guava, avocado, kachapojas (perhaps a plant from the Chachapoyas), Panicum indicum (Indian millet), bromeliad, Peruvian bark, Hya­ cinthus peruvianus, tobacco, Balsamum peruvianum, Papaya peruvianorum, and chirimoya. 56. AAL, sección hechizerías, 1, 7 (Lima, 1621), and leg. 9, 3 (Ayaviri, 1692). In 1710 (and thus quite late), the treasurer of Lima’s cathedral liberated an indigenous herbalist, Juan Vázques, from the Inquisition’s persecution and made him work in the hospital of the Bethlemites. Millones, “El pleito contra don Juan Vázquez, curandero de Cajamarca,” 407–33. 57. Spaniards and commoners alike had sharply limited the religious specialist’s space to operate as a priest of a huaca and its ayllu, but had been more lenient toward other healers. As a result, the religious specialist often presented him- or herself as

350  notes to pages 200–201 a curandero (while having at the same time clandestine recourse to huacas). See, for example, AAL, sección hechizerías, 7, 7 (Lima, 1670: Visitator Luis Fernández de Herrera investigated the native healer Diego Chauca from Huanuco). Though the genesis of the word curandero is unclear, its use by indigenous people and Creoles increased over the course of the seventeenth century. In some instances, a primary reliance on herbs in healing distinguished the curandero from the hechizero. As soon as a curandero used “superstitious” instruments or even poison, the curandero became classified either as curandero supersticioso or hechizero. In other cases, however, the terms curandero and hechizero were used interchangeably. A good example for the confusion of terms is AAL, sección hechizerías, 3, 2 (Yaulí, 1650). See also AAL, sección hechizerías, 4, 2 (Ambar, 1662); here, the accusation against Maria Canchan was “curandó con cuy, sebo de llama, y de otro mas cosas de que usan los que son hechiceros.” In AAL, sección hechizerías, leg. 7, 15 (Pararín, 1677), an Indian was said to be a “gran curandero y hervolario el qual dixo a este testigo que el avia dado bocado.” In the end, he was accused of hechizería. In the eighteenth and nineteenth centuries, then, the terminology shifted in two directions. First, the word curandero replaced the older term hechizero. Second, the curandero sometimes turned into an herbolario (a term used to this day in the north). 58. That the indigenous herbalist might act in service of colonial society is not envisioned in civil legislation, but the possibility is suggested by a preliminary glance into the laws of the different provinces. More research is required to substantiate it. 59. Arriaga, Extirpacíon, 114. 60. For evidence, see the discussions on Murúa below. It should be noted that during the rewriting of his manuscripts for the final Historia general (from 1590 to 1615) Murúa omitted or added information to the original Cuzco manuscript to better explain Andean hechizería to a European audience. Once the local lords of Cuzco ratified Murúa’s manuscript (on May 16, 1596), Murúa omitted details about Andean practices (see below with respect to love magic and with respect to harmful magic that involved waxen figurines), and he added implicit and explicit comparisons with European (and perhaps Afro-­Caribbean) customs (see below with respect to the Inca custom to break out teeth from the dead; and see his interpretation of the capacity to fly as already described in chapter 2). 61. In European logic, sympathetic magic required actions by the devil, whose preternatural intervention was hypothesized to eliminate conceptual gaps in the natural chain of cause and effect. This hypothesis was not spelled out in Afro-­Peruvian testimonies, and we know that Afro-­Peruvians also had a notion of evil residing in natural objects (Medina, Historia del Tribunal de la Inquisición de Cartagena; for example, 211). Yet historians argue that the religious concepts of various African tribes were already heavily imbued with Christian influence, even prior to their arrival in the New World. See Thornton, “On the Trail of Voodoo,” 261–78; for mélanges taking place in Cartagena, see the testimonies in Splendiani and Sánchez Bohórquez, Cin­ cuenta años de Inquisición en el tribunal de Cartagena de Indias, as well as Splendiani’s introduction. A belief in European-­type witches was quite widespread among the people convicted by the Cartagena court. The investigations of Afro-­Peruvian beliefs are still in their early stages, though historians have already concluded that Afro-­Peruvian culture was more prone than any other in the colonial world to fuse

notes to pages 201–203  351 with Christianity. This kind of mélange merits further investigation. For work to date, see Cuche, “La Mort des dieux africaux,” 77–93; Rocca Torres, “Dimensiones de la interculturalidad afroandina,” 15–46; and Aguirre and Ballumbrosio Guadalupe, Lo africano en la cultura criolla. An example of Afro-­Christian syncretism is the black saint in Cañete, so far studied only by Luna Obregón, Efigenia, la negra santa. The comparative approach taken here builds on—and adds to—information otherwise taken from Bastide, Les Amériques noires; Medina, La Inquisición en Cartagena, 173–247; McKnight, “En su tierra lo aprendió,” 63–84; Navarrete, Prácticas religiosas de los negros en la colonia Cartagena; Ceballos Gómez, Zauberei und Hexerei; Ares Queija and Stella, Negros, Mulatos, Zambaigos; Laviña, “Afromexicanos, curanderos heterodoxos y brujos,” 197–210; and Mello-­Souza, Bruxaria em tres tempos, 181–96. 62. Relación de los agustinos, 37. 63. Relación de los agustinos, 38. In Spanish law the employment of herbs with the properties to kill required capital punishment. See already Siete partidas, título 8, leyes 6 and 7, 3:568–69. 64. Guaman Poma, Nueva corónica, image 277, 1:206. 65. Betanzos, Narrative, 165. 66. Ibid., 46, 11. 67. Murúa, Historia general, 441. 68. Sarmiento, History, chap. 43, 128; and chap. 44, 130. 69. See also Pachacuti, “Relación,” 249; Guaman Poma, Nueva corónica, image 248, 1:184; Relación de los agustinos, 12. For a different interpretation, see the Huarochirí Manuscript, supp. 1, 145. 70. Molina, “Relación,” 63. 71. Ibid., 64. 72. Guaman Poma, Nueva corónica, image 278, 1:207: “otros hechiceros toman sebo de carnero y de culebra y de león y de otros animales, y maíz y sangre y chicha y coca, y lo queman y hacen hablar del fuego a los demonios y les preguntan y les responden, y dicen lo que ha de haber y lo que pasa, por ellos lo saben.” 73. On Spanish attitudes toward hallucinogens (particularly in Mexico, but likewise in Peru), see Sallmann and Gruzinski, Visions indiennes, visions baroques, 131–32. 74. See Cobo, Historia del nuevo mundo, 227–29; and Vega Bazan, Testimonio auténtico de una idolatría muy sútil, introduction. 75. ARSI, Perú, 15, fol. 58 (Cuzco, 1635–36). See Polia Meconi, La cosmovisión reli­ giosa andina, 137–44. Peruvian priests might have used hallucinogens out of curiosity, bravery, or fear. We are better informed about their consumption of coca and tobacco. 76. Murúa, Historia general, 441; or Getty Manuscript, fol. 295v: “Tenían otro abuso que, cuando querían mal a otro y deseaban que se muriese u otro daño, llevaban su ropa y vestidos, y vestían con ellos alguna estatua que hacían en nombre de la tal persona, y le colgaban y maldecían, escupíendola, y así mismo hacían estatuas pequeñas de barro o de cera o de masa, y les ponían en el fuego, para que allí se derritiese la cera o el barro se endureciese, creyendo que con esto quedarían vengados, o hacían mal al que aborrecían y finalmente, a este propósito hacen mil ceremonias.” In the Galvin Manuscript this section only contains the additional information that

352  notes to pages 203–206 “evil indios that are filled with hatred” use these practices to inflict a different kind of evil harm (Galvin Manuscript, 110r). Ondegardo, Murúa’s principal informant, did not have this information. 77. Cieza de León, Crónica, 376. Perhaps the black wax was fat. Cobo (Historia del nuevo mundo, 229) recycled this information. 78. Arriaga, Extirpación, 45. 79. Duviols, Procesos y visitas de idolatrías, 173 (Caxamarquilla, 1656). 80. See, for example, Museo Larco, 122. 81. Wax and fat are difficult to trace in earthen remains. If religious specialists used similar artifacts during colonial times, any distinctions were lost under the general Spanish heading bulto (idol). If the crafted bone that formed a body and the black wax face—as in Cieza de León’s description—were common artifacts in pre-­ Inca or Inca cultures, archaeologists very likely would have excavated fragments of similar body pieces that bore no face. Much work in colonial archaeology of colonial Peru remains to be done, however. See Kuznar, “An Introduction to Andean Religious Ethnoarchaeology,” 38–66. 82. Siete partidas, título 23, ley 2, 3:668. 83. Delrío, Disquisitionum magicarum libri sex (1617), 3:1, sec. 4, 400; Bodin, De magorum daemonomania, 2:8. See Graf, Magic in the Ancient World, 118–74. In Mexico, the Inquisition punished a learned Spanish magician who had formed a waxen dragon in order to speak with him. Similar cases are unknown in colonial Peru (AGNM, Inquisición, 314, Mexico City, 1617). 84. Figures, waxen or not, were used in early modern Iberia; see Delrío, Disquisi­ tionum magicarum libri sex (1624), vol. 3, sec. 4, esp. 400–4. 85. Peña Montenegro, Itinerario para párrocos, 1:488. 86. Duviols, Procesos y visitas de idolatrías, 174. The fat was used to heal and also to burn offerings to huacas. 87. Discussed later in this chapter; see also AAL, sección hechizerías, leg. 10, 8 (Yaulí, 1699). 88. Scattered evidence for figures used by Afro-­Peruvians can be found in Bowser, The African Slave in Colonial Peru, 252; Luis Delgado Aparicio, La africanía en Amé­ rica, 79–95, 85; Bastide, Les Amériques noires, 144, 151 (here from an ethnographic perspective reaching back to the eighteenth century); and Ceballos Gómez, Zauberei und Hexerei, 231. 89. See Thornton, “On the Trail of Voodoo,” 261–78. Voodoo is still awaiting a detailed history. In 1633, the Inquisition in Cartagena prosecuted a black woman for having used puppets that inflicted harm. Testimonies for voodoo celebrations and use of the zombie usually date from the late colonial Caribbean. See Brown, The Reaper’s Garden, 144–52. 90. Bowser, The African Slave in Colonial Peru, 252. 91. The pierced toad—as we will see later in the chapter—was yet another object to which Spaniards and blacks attributed a different meaning than did the Andeans. On pierced objects in Afro-­Caribbean cultures, see Tejado Fernández, Aspectos de la vida social en Cartagena de Indias durante el seiscientos, 94. 92. On Libiac’s anger, see also Duviols, Procesos y visitas de idolatrías, 230 (San Francisco de Otuco, 1656).

notes to pages 206–208  353 93. In 1736, an Afro-­Peruvian suspected an Indian woman of having inflicted harm with a puppet. AHN, Inquisición, Tribunal de Lima, leg. 56, 2 (1736). 94. Animosity between Spaniards and indigenous people likewise bred suspicions of maleficio. The testimony of Andres Dias Calleron, a Spaniard in Yaután, is representative: he accused two Indians of maleficio, arguing that they disliked the Spaniards. See AAL, sección hechizerías, leg. 2, 5 (Yaután, 1646); AAL, sección hechizerías, leg. 9, 5 (Lima, 1695). 95. During the colonial period the ethnic ratio in coastal towns could be as high as six blacks to one white. See the data cited in Glass-­Coffin, “The Emergence of the Modern Mesa: African Influence and Syncretisms Revisited.” 96. Gareis, “Religión popular y etnicidad,” 117–43. 97. On the suspicion of maleficio and relations between Afro-­Peruvians and Amerindians, see Arriaga, who reported that a black person had accused an Indian brujo in 1610 (Arriaga, Extirpación, 38); AAL, sección hechizerías, leg. 11, 6a (Llata, 1723), where an Afro-­Peruvian denounced an Indian woman for her maleficio; AAL, sección hechizerías, leg. 7, 7 (Lima, 1670), where a native from Huánuco is suspected of having given a “bocado” to a “negro.” In AAT, sección idolatrías, DD-­1-­7 (Trujillo, 1774), an indigenous woman, Petrona de Alegría, is accused of having put an evil spell on an Afro-­Peruvian slave named Gregorio. See also AHN, leg. 56, 2 (1736). 98. AAL, sección hechizerías, leg. 3, 3 (Huarmey, 1650). 99. Further research is needed to discover how seventeenth-­century civil courts dealt with such cases. 100. AAL, sección hechizerías, leg. 3, 1 (Yaulí, 1650), as voiced by a witness. See also Bowser, The African Slave in Colonial Peru, 253. 101. AHN, Quito, Indígenas, caja 28, exp. 3 (1704). 102. Afro-­Peruvian and Spanish practices went beyond the highlands, into the eastern lowlands. See Gutiérrez Brockington, Blacks, Indians, and Spaniards. 103. According to Guaman Poma, one method of inflicting harm relied on threads spun to the left, which hechizeros put into the streets “como lazos de los demonios.” The enemy caught the hechizo that had been put into the thread. Elsewhere Guaman Poma referred to the corregidor Martín de Mendoza, who had “observed” an Indian stealing hairs from an enemy and burying them in the fields, “making thousands of ceremonies to make the [enemy] die and suffer from work and poverty for each one of his house and his family” (Guaman Poma, Nueva corónica, image 275, 1:204–5). Hairs and fingernails played a role in Inca religious customs. According to Betanzos (Narrative, 162), one year after the death of Tupac Inca Yupanqui, on the occasion of the Purucaya festivities, a statue was made out of fingernails and the hair of the dead Inca. Diez de Betanzos compared this occasion to the feast marking a saint’s canonization. Sarmiento related that Indians sacrificed eyelashes to show reverence to the reigning Inca (Sarmiento, History, 130), and Murúa (Historia general, 415) similarly mentioned a sacrifice in which the Indian or Inca offered eyelashes. Murúa also reported that sometimes after an Indian had died, the hechizero would extract the corpse’s teeth and cut its hair in order to make diverse “hechizerías,” “like in Spain and other parts.” See Murúa, Historia general, 416; no other chronicler remarked on this custom. This information is also not included in the Galvin Manuscript. Archaeological evidence from the Caribbean (though not Peru) shows that

354  notes to pages 208–217 Afro-­Caribbeans broke out the teeth of their dead in the belief that doing so brought luck. Besides his knowledge about Spanish practices, Murúa perhaps had heard of hechizerías in an Afro-­American context or had borrowed material from some unknown source on Caribbean practices. López de Gómara’s Historia general de las Indias, which Murúa used in other contexts, does not have this kind of information. On Murúa’s use of López de Gómara, see Rowe, “La mentira literaria en la obra de Martín de Murúa,” 753–61. 104. For an introduction, see Thornton, Africa and Africans in the Making of the Atlantic World, 235–71. 105. Fernández Juárez, Entre la repugnancia y la seducción, 15. 106. AAL, sección hechizerías, leg. 10, 6 (Huarochirí, 1700). Torres y Zuñiga was obviously also a jurist in the Royal Audiencia. The case had begun with his examination. 107. ANH, Quito: Indígenas, caja 43, exp. 7 (May 18, 1730). 108. Peña Montenegro, Itinerario para párrocos, 1:487. 109. Stavig (Amor y violencia sexual [1996]) gives insight into other preoccupations of Cuzco’s seventeenth- and eighteenth-­century clergy. Already in 1639, Jesuits reported on a toad that served as household idol for a Cuzqueña woman. ARSI, Perú, vol. 15, fol. 167 (Cuzco, 1639–40). 110. This image, by an unknown artist, has not yet been analyzed. 111. AAC, Época colonial, paquete LVI, exp. 2, 25, 14, n.p. 112. AAC, Época colonial, box LXXV, paquete 1, 8, n.p. 113. Handwörterbuch des deutschen Aberglaubens, 5, 608–35. 114. Plinius Secundus, Gaius, Historia naturalis, 18:158, 294, 303; 32:48; 25:123. The magical and curative properties of toads were attributed to them not only because of their venom but also because of their astonishing capacity to heal themselves. These ideas were reiterated over and over again in sixteenth-­century treatises on magic. See Agrippa von Nettesheim, De occulta philosophia, chap. 17, 35; chap. 42, 76; and chap. 36, 65. For magical cures with toads, see also Cardano, De subtilitate libri XXI, 541; and Kircher, Mundus subterraneus, 2:54. 115. Polo de Ondegardo, “Errores,” 28, and Instrucción contra las ceremonias, 12. Interestingly, in Machu Picchu, in a female grave, burial no. 59, a jar was discovered that contained a “rodent’s cranium, bits of silver, twisted rawhide, seeds, and human teeth.” See Burger and Salazar, Machu Picchu, 134. 116. Guaman Poma, Nueva corónica, image 275, 1:204. 117. Tercero cathecismo, 484. 118. Cobo, Historia del nuevo mundo, 1:352–53. On a different interpretation of the prehispanic significance of toads see Millones, La fauna sagrada, 73–75. 119. See Biblioteca Nacional Lima, Manuscript B 1664 (1633), in which Cobo wrote from Mexico comparing it with Peru. 120. Benson, Mochica, 55; Lavallée, Les représentations animales, 53, and table 95. 121. Guillén Guillén, Versión inca de la conquista, 69. 122. See also Mariscotti de Görlitz, Pachamama santa tierra, 45. 123. Murúa, Historia general, 421. 124. The size of the heart valve was the indicator of good or bad fortune. 125. Murúa, Historia general, 421: “Piérdanse las fuerzas y ánimo de las huacas de mis enemigos.” The same information is also in the Galvin Manuscript, 105r (yet

notes to pages 217–218  355 here it reads usachun). González Holgúin (Vocabulario, 358) translated usachini as “alcançar adquirir salir con algo.” 126. Cobo, Historia del nuevo mundo, 1:352. 127. See Molina’s report on the Moyucati festival in the month of Camayquilla, which he equated with December; see also chapter 1. On the nineteenth day of the first moon, people from upper and lower Cuzco gathered on the banks of a little river called Capimayo. The river went from Cuzco to Ollantaytambo, fifty miles distant. Cuzco’s Indians cast into the river not just gold, silver, clothes, and many other valuable things, but especially all the ashes from the previous year’s sacrifices. The bulk of artifacts were carried away to Ollantaytambo. This festival, a cleansing ritual, was intended as a symbolic compensation in honor of Viracocha. The Indians followed the stream of the floating valuables and cold ashes up to Ollantaytambo, where the ashes were abandoned with a farewell gift of two coca baskets. The account closes by remarking that those Indians who were the slowest among the attendants of the ashes were made to carry a little figure of a toad upon their return to Cuzco. This figure, made of salt, was like a dunce cap that marked the slow Indians as figures of ridicule (Molina, “Relación,” 111–17; see also Zuidema, “Lion in the City,” 183–251, though he does not discuss the toad). 128. Being slow was not worthy of an Inca warrior. Santa Cruz Pachacuti Yamqui tells us of an initiation rite in which young men of Cuzco were made to carry birds, llamas, and “zorillas, culebras, and toads” to the nearby main Inca huaca, Huanacauri, in order to prove their “quality, their agility, and their cowardice.” The toads, together with the snakes and lizards, were to be put behind the birds and llamas. Here the slowest Indians were given a black pair of trousers, whereas the most valiant and fastest ones were given white trousers. Of most interest to us is that toads were linked to snakes and were set behind the birds (as animals of the air) and the llamas (as animals of the earth). Whether to be “behind” in the Andean world indicated lower esteem is not clear in this context (see Pachacuti, “Relación,” 229–328, esp. 249). Santa Cruz’s report loosely connects toads and lameness; in Molina’s account, this association was drawn more directly. As Ginzburg has shown, the idea of “lameness” was associated with toads, physical disabilities, and shamans. Physical disabilities are also a recurrent theme in the tales about the Andean hechizeros (a theme that cannot be explored here). In the European iatromagic literature of Arabic and Greco-­Roman origin, we also find the idea that “ugly” creatures, like the toad, can heal “lameness,” among other illnesses. See Rotschuh, Iatromagie. 129. Molina, “Relación,” 112. In Guaman Poma’s description, the zankay has some similar features. See also Guaman Poma’s depiction of what Murúa calls “sota Rano” in Murúa’s Galvin Manuscript, 74v, in which he depicted two toads, two snakes, and two lizards. 130. Baer, Die Religion der Matsigenka, 217. 131. Huarochirí Manuscript, chap. 5, 54–60. 132. “[A]mautacunacta doctorcunacta and yachaccunacta saviocunacta” (ibid., 55). 133. The first part of the story seems to reflect a Christian influence. The story centers on a witchlike woman who is accused of adultery. She robs her husband of his manhood, and her agents are a two-­headed toad and two snakes. We might compare a story told by Pliny, Historia naturalis, 32:48: “[T]hey [the magi] say that if frogs are pierced with a reed from the genitals through the mouth and if the husband plants

356  notes to pages 218–222 a shoot in his wife’s menstrual discharge she conceives an aversion to adulterous lovers.” In Pliny, a mutilated toad averts adultery; in the Huarochirí Manuscript, a two-­headed toad is a sign of adultery. In addition, the story in the Huarochirí Manuscript of the woman who found a maize seed in her vagina and gave it to a lover, thereby becoming an adulteress, resembles the incubus stories of the Malleus malefi­ carum in which witches have intercourse with the devil. A witch (the woman) devotes herself to the devil (the unknown lover, which then produces harm to the husband and takes away his strength and, in a figurative sense, his manhood) by placing something from her vagina in the mouth of the unknown lover (equated with the devil). The grain of maize is here possibly the Andean symbol of fertility (the women’s devotion to a man other than the husband). 134. See also chap. 16 of the Huarochirí Manuscript. The two-­headed serpent is a standard motif in Inca history (for example, see Sarmiento, History, 101; and Pachacuti, “Relación,” 277). For first information on the amaru, see Langue and Salazar-­ Soler, Dictionnaire des termes miniers en usage en Amérique Espagnole. For its appearance in Tiwanaku culture, see, for example, Demarest, Viracocha. For its role in Moche culture, see Giersz and Makowski, El mundo sobrenatural Mochica. 135. Ginzburg, Ecstasies, 306. 136. Magnus, Historia de gentibus septentrionalis, 3:121. 137. The image is part of the celda de penitencia (cell of penitence). It might have been painted in 1734. See Flores Ochoa and Kuon Arce, Pintura mural en el Sur Andino; and Gisbert, Historia de la pintura cuzqueña, 1:244–46. The painting merits further study. 138. Davis, Passage of Darkness, 138. 139. Rev. 16:13–14 (Vulgate). “Et vidi de ore draconis et de ore bestiae et de ore pseudoprophetae spiritus tres immundos velut ranas: sund enim spiritus daemoniorum facientes signa, qui procedunt ad reges universi orbis congregare illos in proelium diei magni Dei omnipotentis.” 140. Both depictions of hell are inspired by a copper engraving by Hieronymus Wierix, De caelo respexit Dominus, vidit omnes [Incipit] (1600 [1619]), and by an engraving by Matthäus Merian. See Mujica Pinilla, “Diego Quispe Tito: The Last Judgment,” 425; and Gisbert, Historia de la pintura cuzqueña, 1:248–51. 141. As we have already seen, because of the quality of colonial visitation records, we cannot deduce from indigenous testimonies whether sicknesses were believed to have been caused by a huaca, a maleficio, or something else. However, the term achaque hinted at a superhuman origin, and worms seem to have been particularly associated with sicknesses inflicted by a huaca. See Vega Bazan, Testimonio autén­ tico de una idolatría muy sútil, preface. A rare example of an explicit statement of cause can be found in AAL, sección hechizerías, 9, 3 (Ayaviri, 1692). 142. AAL, sección hechizerías, leg. 7, 15 (Pararín, 1677). 143. The only unnatural cause discussed is the idea that a thread spun to the left could inflict harm; it is taken up by a black executioner in AAL, sección hechizerías, leg. 7, 9 (Lima, 1669). The importance of threads and leftward movements requires a separate study. 144. AAL, sección hechizerías, leg. 2, 5 (Yaután, 1646). 145. Annua of 1618, in Polia Meconi, Cosmovisión, 414.

notes to pages 222–225  357 146. On healings with huacas and herbs, see AAL, sección hechizerías, leg. 3, 2 (Yaulí, 1650: fat, maize, and the apu); leg. 2a, 14 (Atavillos Altos, 1659: herbs); leg. 4, 11 (San Lorenzo de Quinti, 1661: herbs); leg. 8, 6 (Junín, 1690: herbs and the coca of hechi­ zerías); and leg. 11, 4 (Lima, 1719: the accuser said he was healing “only with nature”). Besides herbs, other religious specialists included in their healings stones, the wind, and rivers (or roads) that take away sickness (AAL, sección hechizerías, leg. 4, 13 [San Lorenzo de Quinti, 1660]; and AHN, Inquisición, Tribunal Lima, book 1032). 147. During one of the regular visitations of the colegios in Peru, the Provincial of the Jesuits mandated on October 24, 1660, that the pharmacist (boticario) was to control all materia médica. He was to hand out medicine to the poor people only after the superior had approved. Since medicine from Europe was too expensive, the pharmacist was to get the medicine from Paraguay and Chile (Provincial Archive of the Jesuit Order in Lima). 148. See also Llano y Zapata, Memorias histórico, físicas, 486–88. In his Rela­ ción geográfica (249), Antonio Borja wrote that indigenous people “traen una raiz que se llama contraerba; . . . son estos indios tenidos por grandes hechiceros, y asi dicen estos naturales destos pueblos, que si no les compran lo que traen a vender, que los hechizan, de suerte que dello vienen a morir. Ya ha cesado el resgate de los muchachos, por causa que piden espadas y machetes . . . [.]” Anagnostou (Jesuiten in Spanisch-­Amerika, 233) refers only to the Spanish understanding of contrahierba. 149. See also AAL, sección hechizerías, leg. 8, 6 (Junín, 1690). 150. Zuidema, “El puente del río Apurímac y el origen mítico de la villca (Ana­ denanthera colubrina),” 322–34. 151. Young-­Sánchez, Tiwanaku, 63. 152. Molina, “Relación,” 92–93. I thank Julio Olivera Lezama, Cuzco, for the translation of the Quechua. Henrique Urbano’s version appears to be informed by Spanish concepts. 153. Chiappe and Lemlij, Alucinogenos y shamanismo en el Perú contemporaneo, 11. 154. AAL, sección hechizerías, leg. 3, 15 (Huarochirí, 1660). 155. See the exemplar in the library of the Mercedarians in Cuzco. The anonymous reader was also interested in general rules of civil (and canonical) law. This copy has been mutilated; the front pages have been stripped. This exemplar, though, is identical with the 1623 edition (Moguntiae: Schönwetter, 1623). The Inquisition in Lima censored this book on July 6, 1652. 156. According to Guaman Poma, villca tauri was used as a purgative. 157. See AAL, sección hechizerías, leg. 4, 1 (Lunahuaná, 1661). Magdalena Callao was rumored to be an hechizera who gave zanco (maize cake) to the sick; she defended her recipe by saying that it was traditional. 158. For an instructive explanation of the role of mulatto and Spanish hechizeras in Lima, see Flores Espinoza, “Hechicería e idolatría en Lima colonial,” 53–74. 159. On the indigenous use of sayri during early colonial times, see Bertonio, Vo­ cabulario Aymara, s.v. “sayri”; González Holguín, Vocabulario, 676; Cobo, Historia del nuevo mundo, 1:185–86; Cabeza de Vaca, “Descripción y relación de la ciudad de La Paz,” 342–51. For later times, see AAL, sección hechizerías, leg. 7, 15 (Pararín, 1677). For use of tobacco among northern healers, see AAT, sección idolatrías, leg. DD-­1-­3

358  notes to pages 225–226 (Pueblo Nuevo, 1768); leg. DD-­1-­5 (Moche, 1771). For an example of a mulatto woman who used both, see AHN, leg. 1649, exp. 13 (the accused was Paula Molina from Lima, for the first time in 1766). See Garofalo, “Conjuring with Coca and the Inca,” 77. On its modern use, see Chávez Hualpa, “El uso mágico del tabaco en un contexto urbano,” 67–93; interestingly, one woman said that she learned to read tobacco leaves from a Haitian woman (89). 160. AAL, sección hechizería, leg. 7, 15 (Pararín, 1677, involving an indigenous healer from Huanuco who healed with tobacco and alcohol); AAT, sección idolatrías, DD-­1-­5 (Moche, 1771); AHN, book 1032, 113v (1667, a Creole woman who healed with tobacco). See also Eduardo the Healer, who said that he blows tobacco toward the objects on his mesa so as to charge them with power. 161. In the nineteenth century, playing cards, which formerly had been used only by the Spanish, were sometimes assimilated into Andean rituals. For a Spanish colonial example, see AHN, Inquisición, Tribunal de Lima, book 1032, 113v. 162. On modern-­day interethnic exchange among healers in southern Columbia, see Schindler and Faust, “Relaciones interétnicas de los curanderos en el suroccidente Colombiano,” 281–94. See also Glass-­Coffin, “The Emergence of the Modern Mesa.” On modern-­day “shamanism” in northern Peru, see Tomoeda and Fujii, Entre Dios y el diablo. 163. Several studies have investigated techniques and beliefs adopted from indigenous religious specialists by Creole, Spanish, and mulatto ritual specialists in Lima. See, for example, Mannarelli, “Inquisición y mujeres,” 141–54; and Estenssoro Fuchs, “La construcción de un más allá colonial,” 415–39. 164. Notaries took notice of Spanish and Afro-­Peruvian ritual specialists’ prayers to “Mama Coca”; see, for example, AHN, Inquisición, Tribunal de Lima, libro 1032, 113v (1667); ibid., 388 (1696). For an exception, see AAL, sección hechizerías, leg. 7, 9 (Lima, 1669). See Garofalo, “Conjuring with Coca,” 53–80. 165. Guaman Poma, Nueva corónica, 276, 1:205: “Otros hechiceros que son vacanqui camayos, que dicen de los dichos vacanquis que son unos pajaros llamados tunqui de los Andes, . . . los cuales traen estos dichos vacanquis las indias entonadas y chinaconas, criadas de las españoles, que son putas y mesoneras y tamberas. Y dicen que algunas españolas lo traen para engañar a los hombres sus haciendas, estas dichas mujeres guacanqueras hacen matarse a los hombres y gastar cuanto tienen para ellas, y así quedan pobres.” 166. González Holguín, Vocabulario, 166: “unas yervas les dan por hechizos de amores” and “el que se haze amar como el que trae hechizos.” 167. See Albornoz, “Instrucción para descubrir todas las guacas,” 173. In Tarija, Bolivia, one finds a pass by the name of “Abra guacanqui,” which might have been the source of Albornoz’s description. 168. Arriaga, Extirpación, 62. See also Delrío, Disquisitionum magicarum libri sex (1617), vol. 3, sec. 2, 266. In the Cordillera Negra, an Indian woman in Huaylas was reported to employ huacanquis for attracting riches. See ARSI, Perú, 14, 48–71, 56v (1617). See also Polia Meconi, La cosmovisión religiosa andina, 401. 169. Molina, “Relación,” 55; Sarmiento, History, 31. 170. “[P]luma hermosa y linda aqui te pongo estos cavellos de este amante permite que esta mujer le quiera.” Love magic can be found, among other places, in

notes to page 227  359 AAL, sección hechizerías, leg. 4, 2 (Ambar, 1660); leg. 4, 4 (Ambar, 1662); and leg. 10, 6 (Huarochirí, 1700). See also Polia Meconi, La cosmovisión religiosa andina, 145–46. See also Duviols, Procesos y visitas de idolatrías, 175, 194, 251. Here, huacanquis were attributed to women and were said to have served as spells to not only obtain a beloved man but also money, food, and clothing; however, the testimonies do not specify how huacanquis were employed. 171. Murúa, Historia general, 435. See also below. 172. Murúa, Galvin Manuscript, 106v. 173. Hyland, Quito Manuscript, 139. The Quito Manuscript draws particularly on customs from the Quito area; however, a Quiteño, Lope de Atienza, does not have this information on huacanquis. 174. Delrío referred to a similar European ritual as mentioned in the writings of Theocritus, Virgil, and Sextus Propertius. Delrío, Disquisitionum magicarum libri sex (1617), 417; Fischer, Die ‘Disquisitionum magicarum libri sex,’ 54. 175. Even though the Galvin Manuscript is only half the length of the Getty Manuscript, the section on love magic is, surprisingly, considerably longer in the Galvin (as part of the Cuzco Manuscript) than in the Getty. The Getty version does not contain the information on practices similar to the huacanquis (in Galvin, gua­ cangui ) that involved shells, blue flies, worms that were fed with blood and that were accompanied by the regular Andean fasting or the practice of women breaking the pins that hold together their mantle, believing that this would take away powers from the men. On the different manuscripts see Adorno, “The Making of Murúa’s Historia General del Perú,” 7–75. 176. Remón cut out the information on the fact that specialists in matters of love use clothes, mantas, coca, and their victim’s own hair (“cavellos o pelos”) or hair and clothes of the “accomplice” (and sometimes of their blood) so as to perform their hechizerías (the first section being crossed out in the Getty Manuscript, 289v). He also crossed out information on the fact that hechizeros used not only huacanquis to attract a partner but also used “similar sorceries” made of hair, shells, blue flies, and worms that were fed with blood. (The second section that is crossed out in the Getty Manuscript, 289v, is only in part identical with the information in the Galvin Manuscript; see above). 177. Usually, among the sources said to have been used by Murúa, are the following: Francisco López de Gómara, Diego Fernández de Palentino, Fray Jerónimo de Oré, Sarmiento de Gamboa, Guaman Poma de Ayala, Cabello Balboa, and Polo de Ondegardo. But none of these authors has the information Murúa has on huacan­ quis or on the figures made out of fat (see above). On the discussion of the different sources, see Adorno, “Censorship and Approbation,” 123. 178. See Garofalo, “Conjuring with Coca and the Inca,” 53–80. 179. On the use of coca, see AHN, Inquisición Tribunal Lima, book 1031, 374, 379 (1655); book 1032, 171 (1672); book 1032, fol. 388 (1696). In 1674, the Dominican Augustín Poblete, a native of Potosí, was excluded from the order because he had chewed coca and drunk hierba de Paraguay until late at night. Since he also had a liking for women, he was sent for eight years to Santiago de Chile, the last destination of those who were banned. It was obviously synonymous with being beyond civilization (AHN, Inquisición, Tribunal Lima, book 1032, 190).

360  notes to pages 227–230 180. AGNM, Inquisición, vol. 680, exp. 23, 153; vol. 356, fols. 294, 453. 181. AHN, Inquisición, Tribunal de Lima, book 1032, 182r (sometime between 1672 and 1679). 182. AHN, Inquisición, Tribunal de Lima, book 1032, fol. 388 (1696). 183. See, for example, AHN, book 1649, 24 (1774). 184. Maria Canchan from Ambar is a rare example of an expert on issues of love (AAL, sección hechizerías, leg. 4, 4 [Sayán, 1662]). At the same time, she was also suspected of evil sorcery with a puppet. Ambar was a center where mulattos performed both evil and love magic. See also AAL, sección hechizerías, leg. 3, 15 (Huarochirí, 1660). 185. On Yaulí, see AAL, sección hechizerías, leg. 10, 8 (1699), where suspicions ran high that Maria Petronilla used a puppet to inflict harm on her neighbors. The belief in puppets and pierced toads became standard in modern times. See, for example, Arguedas, “Cuentos mágico-­realistas,” 191; he reported that in the 1950s, the hidden puppet as an object of evil sorcery had entered the mythology of the Mantaro Valley.

Chapter eight 1. This argument alone cannot explain the shift in discourse, since assimilation did not protect Indians from accusations of hechizería. 2. As Kenneth Mills (Idolatry and Its Enemies, 163) has shown, by the mid-­ seventeenth century the visitation campaigns in Lima suffered from severe internal problems: litigation over abuses by visitators, financial trouble, and incompetent staff. In August 1654, the Society of Jesus denied its visitators permission to serve in Villagómez’s extirpation campaign, though they did not withdraw entirely from visitations (see AAL, sección hechizerías, leg. 3, 22 [Cuenca, 1659]). More and more, however, Jesuits began to fear for their reputation among the Indians and strove to return to the missionary methods that José de Acosta had once envisioned. They set up hospitals and trusted the miraculous. The cartas annuas from the second half of the seventeenth century deal more with internal issues than with indigenous hechizeros. For evidence that Jesuits turned into protectors of indigenous people, see ARSI, Perú, vol. 21, 4v (to protect the Mojos Indians against war); Perú, vol. 15, 1648, 214 (on the care for Indians in hospitals). Likewise, the church councils of the later colonial period were more concerned with incompetent priests than with indigenous people. 3. Accusations continued to linger into the eighteenth century. AAL, sección hechizerías, leg. 12, 4 (Carampoma, 1730). 4. See ANH, Quito: Indígenas, caja 28, exp. 3 (Nov. 13, 1704); caja 29, exp. 4 (Oct. 3, 1705); caja 43, exp. 7 (May 18, 1730); caja 51, exp. 10 (Oct. 30, 1802); Criminales, caja 111, exp. 3 (Nov. 15, 1784). See also Salomon, “Shamanism and Politics in Late-­colonial Ecuador,” 413–27; and Laviana Cuetos, Brujas y curanderas. 5. AAA, Idolatría, Pueblo de Chachas/Andagua (June 6, 1751). This case testifies to a heightened fear of civil authorities in face of indigenous disobedience. Farther south, in Pelechuco, and four years earlier, a similar kind of accusation was made: Saignes, “Idolâtrie sans extirpateur,” 711–31. 6. AAC, Época colonial, leg. 75, exp. 1, 8 (1776).

notes to pages 230–232  361 7. On the cases of persecution in Cuzco, see AAC, Época colonial, leg. 56, exp. 2, 25, 14 (1748); leg. 75, exp. 1, 8. (1776); also see chapter 7. With regard to Cajamarca, see Dammert Bellido, “Procesos por supersticiones en la provincia de Cajamarca,” 179– 99. In Olmos, near Piura, in 1762, a Spaniard was accused of being a brujo. See ARP, corregimiento, causas civiles, 1752 (sic). 8. Dammert Bellido, “Procesos por supersticiones en la provincia de Cajamarca,” 179–99. 9. Cahill, “El visitador general Areche,” 85–111. 10. See also the civil persecutions of hechizerías in Piura in the first half of the nineteenth century: ARP, Corregimiento, Primer instancia, leg. 184, exp. 4460 (1832); leg. 202, exp. 4426 (1831); leg. 202, exp. 4433 (1831); leg. 209, exp. 4595 (1837). 11. AAT, sección hechizerías, leg. DD-­1-­1 (1752), DD-­1-­3 (1768), DD-­1-­5 (1771), DD-­1-­6 (1771), DD-­1-­7 (1774), DD-­1-­9 (1774), DD-­1-­12 (1786), DD-­1-­23 (1834). So as to relate early colonial processes against hechizeros with late colonial hechizería cases, see also Glass-­Coffin, “Engendering Peruvian Shamanism through Time,” 205–38; Gareis, “Una bucólica andina: Curanderos y brujos en la costa norte,” 211–30; and Noack, “Catalina Rodríguez, ‘hechicera y alcahueta’ de Trujillo,” 43–69. 12. AAT DD-­1-­12 (1786), DD-­1-­13 (1786). Larco, Más allá de los encantos, 32. See also the two royal cédulas of 1783 and 1789 held by Duke University Library (Peruvian Collection, MS 4) that admonished Martínez Compañón to not give up on the issue of conversion of indios. The manuscript also contains a typical but little known trial against Indians charged of hechizería and idolatry (San Juan de Lamud, 1789). 13. I concentrate here on shifts in natural philosophy. For an interpretation of the relation between a new political ideology and the ongoing distrust in indigenous idolatry, see Mujica Pinilla, “Hell in the Andes,” 177–201, an article that appeared after this book was written, but that essentially comes to the same conclusion as this chapter, even though on the basis of a different set of evidence taken mainly from political ideology and art history. 14. AGI, Lima, 337 (1634). 15. We still lack an intellectual history of Peru’s universities during the late colonial period. For now, see Ten, “Ciencia e ilustración en la Universidad de Lima,” 187– 221. Joseph de Medrano (1629–88) accounted for Cuzco’s seventeenth- and eighteenth-­ century fame. See Espinosa Medrano’s mature, Renaissance-­type scholarship: La novena maravilla nuevamente hallada en los panegíricos sagrados (1650); Guibovich Pérez, “Juan de Espinosa Medrano, un intellectual cuzqueño del seiscientos: Nuevos datos biográfico,” 327–47; and Rodríguez Garrido, “La defensa del tomismo por Espinosa Medrano,” 115–36. A contemporary paean of praise to Cuzco’s university appears in AGNL JE-­PR 2, ca. 28, doc. 9. 16. AAL, sección hechizerías, leg. 5, 11 (Laraos, 1665). 17. AAT, leg. DD-­1-­3 (Pueblo Nuevo, 1768). The argument was very likely informed by the Spaniard Benito Feijoo. 18. See Cañizares Esguerra, “New World, New Stars,” 33–68; Warren, Medicine and Politics in Colonial Peru; and, more generally, Fisher, El Perú borbónico, 1750–1824. 19. The line of argument I am pursuing in this chapter is only one aspect of the complex history of science in colonial Peru, many aspects of which remain unknown. A complete picture of the denouement of the discourse on idolatry would

362  notes to pages 233–238 also require reconsidering developments within theology. Thus far, Peru’s history of science lacks a historian such as Elias Trabulse (see, for example, Historia de la ciencia en México). 20. AHN, Inquisición, Tribunal de Lima, book 760: Copia de la causa que se ha celebrado contra Nicolas Legras (alias César Bandier). 21. On the role of Solomon in early modern European discourse, see Sheehan, “Temple and Tabernacle: The Place of Religion in Early Modern England,” 248–72. 22. See Mulsow, Moderne aus dem Untergrund. 23. Mugaburu, Diario de Lima (1935), 2:86. 24. The many seventeenth-­century sermons, narratives of miracles, and hagiographic accounts of saintly men and women all exemplify the deep religiosity in Lima during that time. To take but two examples, see Bravo de Lagunas, Oración evangélica de los dos pechos de la esposa de Christo; and Medina, Vida prodigiosa del venerable siervo de Dios Fr. Martín de Porras. 25. See, for example, AGNM, Inquisición, vol. 1525, 1–13; vol. 303, 414–24; vol. 290, exp. 250–54; vol. 314, exp. 7, 206–7, 260–64; vol. 367, exp. 1, 268, 269–72; vol. 1497, 1, 201–9, 233–44; vol. 1497, 280r; vol. 312, exp. sin número, 87r–v. I will discuss these as other cases in a separate study. See also Martínez, Repertorio de los tiempos e his­ toria natural de esta Nueva España; and Trabulse, Historia de la ciencia en México. 26. ANS, Fondo varios, vol. 33. The volume contains several anonymous treatises that were inspired by the European tradition of early modern erudite magic: Rueda de Pitágoras (in which an anonymous diviner determines states of sickness and cases of evil spells from a combination of numbers), Camillo Leonardo’s Tratado de piedras (the Italian original dates from the early sixteenth century), and a treatise titled Tira la piedra y esconde la mano: Farol inextinguible en les at. .(?) del azierto a los peligros de un hechizo: Antidoto contra el veneno de tocas infiziondas: Apologetico Norma con verdad es desnudas contra mentiras disfrazadas: Dirigido del Piadosso desen­ gaño Monarcha delos tres tiempos y Prinzipe de la luz: Por el Padre Fr. Toribio Cor­ nelio Cabeza de Baca zierbo delos zierbos y Capricornio maior de las cabrillas de el signo de tauro: Natural de la Ilustre villa de Cabra: Año de 1680. The unknown authors of these treatises all draw on the tradition of European erudite magic. 27. AHN, Inquisición Lima, book 1027, 134 (1580–81). 28. Treasure hunters can also be found in AHN, Inquisición Tribunal de Lima, book 1031 (1655), book 1032 (1667), 113v. On a different type of early colonial case of huaca looting in northern Peru see Ramírez, The World Upside Down, 121–50. 29. AHN, Inquisición Lima, book 1027, 316. 30. AHN (1582–83), Inquisición Lima, book 1027, 280: Fray Pedro de Mendoça. 31. We lack the evidence to decide whether Bandier’s claim about the Jesuits was a strategic trick designed to win mercy from the inquisitors. I was unable to establish that there was a communication network between Bandier and the Peruvian Jesuits. He might have had contacts with Ramón Coninck, who replaced Bandier as the teacher of the Conde de Santisteban’s son. 32. O’Neill and Domínguez, Diccionario histórico de la Compañía de Jesús, 3:3104–11. On colonial Jesuit pharmacies, see Laval Manríquez, Botica de los jesuitas de Santiago, “Inventario de la botica de los Jesuitas,” 105–35, and “Una botica colonial,” 263–82; AHN, Inquisición, Tribunal de Lima, book 362, fol. 457: “Botica de San

notes to pages 238–240  363 Pablo in Lima.” These pharmacies often contained bezoar stones, herbs typical of South America, and substances such as condor fat. 33. Provincial Archive of the Jesuit Order, report from the visitator (October 24, 1660), without a shelf mark. Throughout the sixteenth century, the order received medicine from its royal patrons. See BNL, A 75 (Lima, 1578). 34. AAL, sección hechizerías, 1, 13 (Pallasca, n.d., visitator Bartolomé Jurado); 1, 17 (Trujillo, 1610). In later times, an indirect interest in herbs can be seen in AAL, sección hechizerías, 5, 3 (Santa Lucía de Coclan, 1667); leg. 9, 3 (Ayaviri, 1692); AAT, sección hechizerías, leg. DD-­1-­1 (Trujillo, 1752); leg. DD-­1-­3 (Trujillo, 1768). 35. See, for example, ARSI, Perú, vol. 14, 38v (mission in Huancavelica, 1613); vol. 19, 150 (mission among the Chucuitu); vol. 20, 133 (mission in Chicas between Potosí and Santa Cruz de la Sierra in 1629 about the abundance of “yerva de la orina,” which kept natives in the region from suffering from kidney stones). 36. See, for example, ARSI, Perú, vol. 16, 1672 (mission from Huamanga to the Chunchos). 37. ARSI, Perú, vol. 20, 1676, 203v (Petrus Manban and Joseph de Castillo reported from the Mojos); RML, V.U. 50, 3. 38. Cobo, Historia del nuevo mundo. 39. On Jesuits as medical doctors in their colegios, see Treutlein, “The Jesuit Missionary in the Role of Physician,” 120–41; the letters from the Colegio de Arequipa in AGNL, temporalidades, colección jesuitas (mainly eighteenth century), and the statutes of the colegios in the same collection. 40. See Ledezma and Millones Figueroa, “Introducción: Los jesuitas y el conocimiento de la naturaleza americana,” 9–26, and other essays in their collection, El saber de los jesuitas. See also Prieto, Missionary Scientists, esp. 91–115, 116–40, and 195. 41. On the exchange of knowledge in the worldwide network of Jesuits, see, in the voluminous literature, O’Malley and Bailey, The Jesuits: Cultures, Sciences, and the Arts, 1540–1773 (vol. 1, 1999, and vol. 2, 2006); Harris, “Jesuit Scientific Activity in Overseas Mission,” 71–79; and Gruzinski, Les quatre parties du monde. 42. L’Ecluse, Exoticorum libri decem, 338. 43. In the central and southern highlands, native Andeans continued to believe that huacas chewed on coca leaves offered to them. See, for example, AAL, sección hechizerías, leg. 3, 2 (Yaulí, 1650). 44. See Borja, Relación, 247–53. 45. Beginning in 1560, the Cabildo of Cuzco tried to control the cultivation of coca leaves and the employment of Indians on coca fields, charging Spaniards with being responsible for the death of “thousands” of Indians. The same year, the king of Spain officially forbade the employment of Indians in coca fields. Twelve years later, Viceroy Francisco de Toledo repeated this prohibition on the same grounds. In 1592, Acosta commented that the legislation had had no effect (Natural and Moral His­ tory, book 4, 211). 46. Matienzo, Gobierno del Perú, 17, 161. Matienzo is ambivalent about the effects of coca. On the one hand, he suggested the demon would tell Indians they would not feel hunger; on the other, Matienzo was convinced that God created coca leaves for the Indians because its properties counteracted the pathology of the uniquely constituted Indian body.

364  notes to pages 240–243 47. Vargas Ugarte, Concilios limenses, 154, const. 124. 48. In 1585, Peru’s high clergy realized that some priests, under a medicinal pretext, had developed a keen interest in coca and tobacco. Smoking tobacco became identified with the lazy and unwilling priest. The Third Council admonished the priests to not smoke or inhale tobacco before reading the Mass. This distrust in the use of tobacco faded in Peru during the late seventeenth century, when Jesuits smoked or inhaled tobacco unapologetically and could not satisfy their demand for chests full of tobacco. In contrast, official Creole reservations about coca continued into the eighteenth century. 49. Acosta, Natural and Moral History, book 4, 211. 50. Arriaga, Extirpación, 44. Among many other examples, see AAL, sección hechizerías, leg. 2, 6 (Yaután, 1646–48); leg. 8, 6 (Junín, 1690). 51. See, for example, ARSI, Perú, 19:150. 52. Cobo, Historia del nuevo mundo, 1:214. He also disregarded the notion that the bodies of Indians and Creoles were unlike those of Europeans. 53. Dioscorides’s writings were a fixture in colonial libraries. See Hampe-­ Martínez, Cultura barroca y extirpación de idolatrías, no. 85. 54. See AAL, sección hechizerías, leg. 6, 13 (Lima, 1668: with regard to a Spaniard and a mulatto woman chewing coca in a fish tavern); leg. 6, 15 (Lima, 1668); leg. 6, 16 (Lima, 1668); leg. 6, 12 (Lima, 1669); and Sánchez, “‘El talismán del diablo,’” 139–62. 55. From 1700 to 1804, the Inquisition’s tribunal in Lima suffered from internal problems. See Pérez Villanueva and Escandell Bonet, Historia de la Inquisición. 56. Ruiz, Relación histórica del viage, 1:169. 57. See, for example, MP, 7:276, 314; interest also reflects in Gerónimo Pallas’s Misión a las Indias, 229 (ARSI, Perú, vol. 22). 58. Relación de los Agustinos, 40, 41. 59. See, for example, Nieremberg, Historia naturae, 184, 858. See also Wittich, Be­ richt von den wunderbaren Bezoardischen Steinen. On the early history of interest in bezoars, see also Stephenson, “From Marvelous Antidote,” 3–39. 60. Moscardo, Note overo memorie del museo di Ludovico Moscardo nobile vero­ nese, academico filarmonico, dal medesimo descritte, et in tre libri distinte, 140. 61. Cobo, Historia del nuevo mundo, 1:128–31, esp. 130. 62. ARSI, Perú, vol. 19, 93v. 63. Calancha, Crónica moralizada, 55 (a somewhat liberal translation). 64. Into the late eighteenth century, the eastern missions feared attacks by poison. See ANS, Fondo Jesuitas, 36, carta mortuaria on Fray Cristóval de Velasco, who worked among the Churimanas in the Mojos region and died in 1731. Like a holy apostle, he tried to gather the Churimanas in a new settlement, even though they fought back with poison. 65. On the reception of Americana in European cabinets of curiosities, see Feest, “The Collecting,” 324–60, and “Mexico and South America,” 237–44; Bujok, “Africana und Americana,” 57–142; and Smith and Findlen, Merchants and Marvels. On the cabinet of curiosities in general, see Findlen, Possessing Nature. 66. Gómez Rivas, El virrey del Perú, 203. 67. See AAC, Época colonial, caja 8, p. 3, exp. 46 (the gifts of Doña María Teresa de Carrión to the archbishop of Cuzco); and Phipps, Colonial Andes, 207. 68. Cobo, Historia del nuevo Mundo, 2:224–34.

notes to pages 243–245  365 69. Moreover, by the mid-­seventeenth century, the internal discipline of the order had weakened. The annual letters became less detailed and less frequent. See Polia Meconi, La cosmovisión religiosa andina. 70. Castrillo, Historia y magia natural. See the copies in the library of Ocopa and the National Library of Santiago de Chile. 71. Castrillo, Historia y magia natural, 16. 72. Nieremberg’s theological books enjoyed wide distribution in the Spanish Americas. His influence among the Guaraní people is known. For Peru, see the holdings in the Recoleta cloister in Arequipa and the Jesuit library in Cuzco, among other places. Art historians, in particular, have recognized Nieremberg’s influence on Peru. 73. Kircher’s books are extant in the colonial libraries of the Jesuits in Cuzco (Mundus subterraneus), of Cuzco’s Mercedarian order (Itinerarium exstaticum), of the Franciscan order in Santa Rosa de Ocopa (Arce Noah, Ars magnetica), in the library of the Compañía de Jesús in Quito (today, the National Library of Quito; Ars magna lucis et umbrae, Prodromus coptus sive Aegyptiacus, ML 136, ML 137), and in the library of the Descalzos in Lima (Prodromus coptus sive Aegyptiacus). I am grateful to Padre Julian Heras, now of Lima, for his wonderful help in locating these copies in Lima and in Ocopa. Enjoying particularly wide distribution were Kircher’s Ars magna lucis, Oedipus Aegyptiacus, Ars magnetica, and Arce Noah. 74. Coninck, Cubus, et sphaera geometrice duplicata, preface. 75. Was Bandier perhaps correct in calling the Jesuits advocates of the law of nature, and did he draw on Coninck himself in doing so? At this stage of research, no definite answer can be provided. 76. See, for example, Rowland, The Ecstatic Journey; and Findlen, Athanasius Kir­ cher: The Last Man Who Knew Everything. 77. Camenietzki, “Celestial Pilgrimages of Valentin Stansel,” 249–70; Osorio Romero, La luz imaginaria; Bargellini, “Athanasius Kircher e la Nuova Spagna,” 86–91; Kramer, “. . . ex último angulo orbis: Atanasio Kircher y el Nuevo Mundo,” 320–77; and Findlen, “A Jesuit’s Books in the New World,” 329–65. On Kircher’s correspondence with New World scholars, see Wicki, “Die miscellanea epistolarum des P. Athanasius Kircher,” 221–54. 78. Furlong, Nicolás Mascardi y su carta, 69–77; and Vargas Ugarte, Historia del culto de María en Iberoamérica, 52. 79. See, for example, BNM, Montenegro, Pedro, Libro primero de la propiedad y birtudes de los arboles y plantas, de las missiones y provincia del Tucuman, con algunas del Brasil y del Oriente: En las misiones de Paraguay (1711); and RAH, Mata Linares, vol. 63, Tratado breve de medicina de las enfermedades que comunmente asaltan: Tomo II compuesto por el Padre Sigismundo celebre ex-­Jesuita de la Com­ pañía de Jesús (late eighteenth century). See Mörner, “The Role of the Jesuits in the Transfer of Secular Baroque Culture to the Río de la Plata Region,” 305–16; and Furlong, Misiones. 80. P. Diego de Rosales, Historia general del Reino de Chile, Flandes Indiano: Selección, prólogo y notas de Alfonso Calderón (n.d.); ANS, Fondo Jesuitas, Varias, Colección de algunas plantas medicinales del reyno de Chile (eighteenth century); and Huonder, Deutsche Jesuitenmissionäre des 17. und 18. Jahrhunderts.

366  notes to pages 245–250 81. On Kircher’s influence on Peruvian arts, see Gisbert, El paraíso de los pájaros parlantes, 131, 269. 82. The library of the Mercedarians has books from various orders. Though some books bear stamps indicating their provenance, this exemplar does not. The marginalia are in two hands. 83. Handwritten marginalia: “El lector que leere sacara mucho aprovechamiento. Digo el quien supiere leer y entender que aqui hallará quanta curiosidad quisiere que Dios me libre de el, y a mi de quien puso esto.” 84. Bermúdez de la Torre y Solier, El sol en el zodíaco certamen poético, 64. 85. See, for example, Zahn’s Oculus artificialis sive telescopium (2nd ed., 1702) in the National Library of Quito (ML 975). 86. Similarities and interactions between the Franciscans, Mercedarians, and Jesuits and their respective scholarly output in Peru still have received little study. 87. Alchemy is also treated in Carvajal, Nuevo beneficio de metales humanos. See also Salazar-­Soler, “Álvaro Alonso Barba,” 269–99. 88. Library of Santa Rosa de Ocopa. Schott’s book bears the marginalia “Libro de los mas solemnes disparates, que no carecen de gracia, cuya atenta lectura, a fuera de tanto de reir, es capac de curar radicalmente al mas recalcitrante hipocondiaco. Es probado.” 89. Llano y Zapata, Observación diaria crítico-­histórico-­metheorologica (1748). On his (intellectual) biography see Charles Walker’s introduction to the edition of Llano y Zapata’s Memorias histórico, físicas, crítico, apologéticas de la América Meridional by Ricardo Ramírez, Antonio Garrido, Luis Millones Figueroa, Víctor Peralta, and Charles Walker, 21–36. See also Walker, Shaky Colonialism. 90. Llano y Zapata, Carta o diario; for example, 16. 91. See Vargas Ugarte, Historia del Santo Cristo de los Milagros. 92. See, among others, Oré, Relación de la vida y milagros de San Francisco Solano; AAL, Procesó de beatificación de Martín de Porras; Iwasaki Cauti, “Vidas de santos y santas vidas,” 47–64; and Mujica Pinilla, Rosa Limensis. A less well-­known example appears in ARSI, Perú, vol. 18 (on the miraculous healings of Pedro Martínez in 1615, 1648, and 1651). 93. See, for example, Céspedes, Sermones varios predicados por el Padre Antonio de Céspedes (1677) and Relación de la salud milagrosa, que dio el bienaventurado Stanislao Kostka (1674). 94. Guaman Poma, Nueva corónica, images 159, 160, 1:123, 125. On a different interpretation, see Dean, A Culture of Stone, 50. 95. Llano y Zapata, Resolución (in Obras varias), without pagination (exemplar of the Biblioteca Nacional del Perú, Lima). 96. BNL, C 808, C 229; AGNL, Temporalidades, Colegio Cuzco: Inventarios; ADC, Colegio de Ciencias, leg. 5, cuad. 7; AAA, Colegio de Jesuitas, leg. 42: Inventarios. See also Vargas Ugarte, Los Jesuitas del Perú and Jesuitas peruanos desterrados a Italia; Martín, Intellectual Conquest of Peru; Mörner, Actividades políticas y económicas; and Cushner, Lords of the Land. 97. Camenietzki, Celestial Pilgrimages of Valentin Stansel, 266. 98. Any colonial library provides ample evidence of censorship. 99. Lanning (Academic Culture in the Spanish Colonies, 65) argues that Enlightenment ideas were introduced to the New World through Benito Jerónimo Feijoo y

notes to pages 250–265  367 Montenegro. See also Martín, The Intellectual Conquest of Peru, 95. For a revisionist approach to the history of science in late colonial Latin America, see Cañizares Esguerra, Spanish America, 718–38; Cueto, Fuentes para la historia de la ciencia peruana, 179–201, and Saberes andinos; Lastres, El pensamiento científico-­natural en el Perú, 89–101; Clément, Neoescolástica en los Andes, 163–80, and El mercurio peruano; Salazar-­Soler, “Álvaro Alonso Barba,” 269–99; and Platt, The Alchemy of Modernity, 1–54. 100. For biographical information, see McPheeters, “The Distinguished Peruvian Scholar Cosme Bueno,” 484–91. 101. Bueno, Disertación físico experimental. 102. Bueno, Tablas de las declinaciones del sol, El conocimiento de los tiempos: Efeméride del año de 1783, and El conocimiento de los tiempos: Efeméride del año de 1788. 103. Bueno, “Disertación físico experimental sobre la naturaleza del agua,” 295– 312, 313–27. 104. Bueno, Catálogo histórico y cronológico de los virreyes. 105. Bueno, Inoculación de las viruelas. 106. Bueno, “Disertación físico experimental sobre la naturaleza del aire.” With regards to Kircher, see Kircher, Oedipus Aegyptiacus; and Gorman, “Between the Demonic and the Miraculous,” 59–71. 107. Bueno, “Disertación físico experimental sobre la naturaleza del aire,” [1795] 105. 108. Bueno, Descripción de las provincias pertenecientes al Obispado del Cuzco, 85. 109. Bueno, “Disertación físico experimental sobre la naturaleza del agua,” 317. 110. To place the Peruvian history of science prior to and during the Enlightenment in the wider context of Latin America, see, for example, Cañizares Esguerra, “Spanish America: From Baroque to Modern Colonial Science,” 718–38, and “Whose Centers and Peripheries?”, 148–61. See also Cueto, Saberes andinos; and Lanning, “The Reception of the Enlightenment,” 71–93. 111. Peralta Ruiz and Walker, “Viajeros naturalistas,” 243–73; and Monguío, “La ilustración peruana y el indio,” 343–55. 112. Ulloa, Noticias americanas, 366. 113. See, for example, Walker, Smoldering Ashes; Garrett, Shadows of Empire.

EpIlogue 1. “European Religion and the Rise of Magic” would play off Keith Thomas’s Reli­ gion and the Decline of Magic. 2. According to Andeans—much like early modern European astrologers—these virtues were sometimes connected to stellar constellations. 3. For a nuanced version of this history, see Fara, “Marginalized Practices,” 485–507. 4. See the introduction and Mills’s discussion of earlier positions (Idolatry and Its Enemies, 243–47). Manuel Marzal (La transformación, 197) argued for changes on the level of intellectual categories (such as the belief in the creator God, huacas, and evil spirits). Duviols (La lutte contre les religions autochtones, 374–79) argued in favor of changes far and wide, spelling it out more explicitly for the worship of mummies.

368  notes to pages 269–271 Mills (Idolatry and Its Enemies, 253, 255) argued for a constant flux and therefore for changes on both the level of concepts and rituals. Griffiths (La cruz y la serpiente, 336) argued in favor of changes on the level of concepts. MacCormack (Religion in the Andes, 406–33) saw rural highland Andean ritual practitioners as those who preserved pre-­Columbian beliefs and customs. 5. To appreciate the interconnectedness of Latin American and European history, we must go beyond the date set by Max Weber for the end of magic. 6. See Wachtel, Le retour des ancêtres, 619–55.

Glossary

Unless otherwise noted, my usage reflects the Andean meaning of terms during colonial times. The following list explains only the terms that are used in this book. Finally, a note on spelling. Spellings in Quechua are often variable. In general, I follow the source’s convention. altomisayuq: The contemporary term designating the highest and most esteemed religious specialist in the southern Andes. apus: Certain mountains in the Andes that were and are worshipped for providing protection, well-­being, and water. Apus are considered the most powerful huacas. ayllu: A kinship group or lineage. ayni: The Andean principle of reciprocity. Members of an ayllu were expected to help each other by sharing both material possessions and labor. bezoar: The kidney stone of a llama or vicuña. Sometimes it was considered to be an ylla. Early modern Europeans and Creoles believed that the bezoar was potent against poisons. camaquen: The life spirit that imbued objects and other entities with life. camasca: A religious specialist held in high esteem in colonial Andean society. He or she was considered to be a healer and someone who had the power to adapt non-­human powers. chaquitaqlla: The foot plow used in the high Andes to plant potatoes. chicha: A drink made from fermented maize (maize beer), often used in rituals. The Quechua term is aka. coca: Erythroxylon coca. Religious specialists chewed the herb or offered coca leaves to huacas in various rituals. colegio: A Jesuit residence that provided education as well as pastoral ministries. The school was usually a preparatory school for university studies or ordination into the priesthood. conopa: Usually small stone figures in the shape of llamas, corncobs, and coca leaves. It was and still is believed that these stones contain powers. corregidor: Chief magistrate in charge of an Amerindian province (corregimiento). coylla: An Inca princess. curaca (cacique): A native political lord. curandero: The Spanish term for healer. cuy: A guinea pig. doctrina: A parish of an indigenous community administered by the secular or regular clergy. Doctrinas were beneficios curados, benefices to which a curacy was attached. encomendero: A Spaniard (often a former conquistador) who received land grants, tributes, and Indians for his service in the New World. In exchange for this Indian labor, he was expected to evangelize “his” Indians. enqa: The life-­giving force contained in a given object. hanan, hurin: The Andean and Inca concept of social ordering that divides society

370  The power of huacas and the world according to a principle of duality. Hanan refers to the upper half or moiety of an indigenous community. Hurin refers to the lower half or moiety of an indigenous community. hechizero: Spanish term for sorcerer. Every religious specialist who performed “superstitious” rites and worshipped an “idol,” thereby allegedly communicating with a demon, was considered an hechizero. hechizos: Evil spells. huaca (guaca, wáka, wak’a): A sacred space, mountain, or object in Andean culture. huacanqui: Spanish chroniclers disagreed widely on the form of the huacanqui. It was said to consist of coca leaves, feathers, and several other objects. Allegedly, religious specialists used the huacanqui in a ritual to unite men and women. ídolo: A Spanish term used to describe any object that is worshipped as God; in practice, any kind of non-­Catholic object that Andeans worshipped. Illapa: The Andean god of thunder and lightning. Since precolonial times, Illapa (also called Catequil) had been worshipped as a provider of water. During colonial times, Santiago “replaced” Illapa. Inca: The title of the rulers and social elite that established the greatest precolonial empire in South America from the fourteenth through sixteenth centuries. Inti: The Inca term for the Sun, one of the principal Inca gods. Janaq Pacha: The modern Quechua term for the upper world. Kay Pacha: The modern Quechua term for the world of human beings. lliclla: A woman’s (wedding) mantle. magus: In colonial Spanish terminology, a magus was an erudite person who drew on the European tradition of magic, often by using astrology or by studying the writings of Hermes Trismegistus. maleficio: The Spanish term for evil sorcery. manta: The Spanish term for a woven textile used like a shawl. mallqui: The mummified ancestor of a kinship group. mesa: Literally, “table,” but it is also the modern Spanish term for the arrangement of personal items that a religious specialist uses in his or her offerings to a huaca. mestizaje: The term employed by modern scholars instead of “hybridity” to signify the fusion of two or more cultures into new cultural expressions, a process that is ever in flux and evolves without direction. Since mestizaje is sometimes confused with racial mixing (mestizos), some historians want to replace it with the concept of mélange. minka: A form of communal work undertaken to carry out tasks of communal interest. mit’a (mita): In Inca times, a tribute paid in the form of manpower. Spaniards continued to use this tribute system to run their mines. mullu (mollo): The Spondylus princeps shell highly valued by the Andean people during colonial times. Pachacamac: A temple complex south of Lima that was famous for its “oracle” during pre-­Inca and Inca times. pachacuti: The Inca concept of the radical turn of times and the end of a given world. It was also the title of the ninth Inca. Pachamama: Mother Earth; today, and during colonial times, worshipped for fertility.

glossary  371 Qoricancha: Literally, “golden square”: the main temple of the Inca empire, located in Cuzco; also called the Temple of the Sun. qero: A ceremonial drinking vessel used in pre-­colonial and colonial times. quipu: Knotted strings used to store information in the Inca and colonial Andean world. quipucamayoc: The record keeper of the Andean world, who used the quipu to store and retrieve information. sebo: The Spanish term for “fat,” usually the fat of llamas and guinea pigs. supay: Understood by the colonial Spanish to mean “the devil.” superstitio: A Catholic term that could be used to describe any anti-­Catholic act. susto: Literally, “fear” or “shock”; among modern southern Andean healers, susto is considered to be the source of sickness. It is understood as a condition in which the life-­giving spirit of the body is lost because of any extreme or life-­threatening event. Taki Onkoy: A movement (sometimes referred to as a “rebellion”) led by Andean religious specialists that began around 1565 and took place primarily in the southern Andes. These religious authorities argued that Andean neglect of their huacas in favor of Jesus and the Christian god was causing sickness among indigenous people, and they called for a return to traditional ways. Tawantinsuyo: An Andean term for the Inca Empire, meaning “land of four directions.” These were Antesuyo (Antisuyo, Antisuyu), Chinchasuyo (Chinchaysuyo, Chinchaysuyu), Collasuyo (or Collasuyu), and Cuntisuyo (or Cuntisuyu). Ukhu Pacha: The modern Quechua term for the lower world. umu: Usually understood by Spanish chroniclers as “diviner.” ushnu: An object or architectural complex that, in Inca times, was built on a site where the Earth was believed to swallow water. vilaoma: Described by Spanish chroniclers as the main priest during Inca times. villca: A plant in the Andes (Anadenanthera columbrina or A. peregrina) used as a hallucinogen. ychuris: Believed by the Spanish to be confessors (especially ychuris from the Lake Titicaca region). ylla (illa): An indigenous “amulet.” The ylla could have different forms and, owing to its inherent powers, was believed to bestow fertility and, later, luck on the one who owned it. zanco (sanco, çanco): A maize cake used in various Inca and Andean rituals.

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Consulted Archives

Bolivia:

La Paz Archivo Arzobispal



Santa Cruz de la Sierra Archivo Obispal

Chile:

Santiago de Chile Archivo de la Nación (ANS) Archivo de los Jesuitas (ANJ) Biblioteca Nacional (ANN)

Ecuador: Quito Archive and Library of the Dominicans Archivo Arzobispal Archivo del Banco Central de Ecuador Archivo Nacional del Ecuador Biblioteca Jacinto Jijón y Caamaño Biblioteca Nacional del Ecuador “Eugenio Espejo” (QBN) Germany: Munich Bayerisches Hauptstaatsarchiv (BHM) Italy: Rome Archivio Storico de Congregazione per L’Evangelizzazione dei Popoli o “de Propaganda Fide” (ASPF) Archivum Romanum Societatis Iesu (ARSI) Mexico:

Mexico City Archivo General de la Nación, Mexico (AGNM)

Peru: Arequipa Archivo Arzobispal de Arequipa (AAA) Library of the Cloister of Recoleta

Cajamarca Archivo Regional



Chiclayo Archivo Arzobispal



Cuzco Archive and Library of the Dominican Order Archivo Arzobispal de Cusco (AAC) Archivo Departamental de Cusco (ADC) Colonial Library in the University of San Antonio Abad Library of the Franciscan Order Library of the Mercedarian Order

374  The power of huacas

Lima Archivo Arzobispal, Lima (AAL) Archivo General de la Nación (AGNL) Archivo Histórico de San Marcos (AUM) Archive and Library of the Dominican Order Archive of San Marcos University Library of the Franciscan Order Biblioteca Nacional, Sala de Investigaciones, Lima (BNL) Provincial Archive of the Jesuit Order Riva Agüero Library Ruiz de Montoya Universidad, Lima, Library and Archive (RML)



Piura Archivo Regional de Piura (ARP)



Trujillo Archivo Arzobispal, Trujillo (AAT)

Spain: Madrid Archivo de la Real Academia de la Historia (RAH) Archivo Histórico Nacional (AHN) Biblioteca Nacional (BNM)

Sevilla Archivo General de Indias (AGI)

USA:

Providence, Rhode Island John Carter Brown Library

List of Abbreviations AAA = Arequipa AAC = Cuzco AAL = Lima AAT = Trujillo ADC = Cuzco AGI = Sevilla AGNL = Lima AGNM = Mexico AHN = Madrid ANH = Quito ANJ = Santiago de Chile ANN = Santiago de Chile

ANS = Santiago de Chile ARP = Piura ARSI = Rome ASPF = Rome AUM = Lima BHM = Munich BN = Lima BNM = Madrid QBN = Quito RAH = Madrid RML = Lima

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index

Abarca, Antonia de, 131, 227 absolution, 120 Acosta, José de: on demons, 16, 17; on the might of hechizeros, 24, 25, 196; on Tupac Amaru, 29, 59; on confessions, 41, 42, 43, 44; arrival in Peru, 49, 65; on “speaking idols,” 105; on ministers of the devil, 117, 256; on indoctrination, 135; on poisons, 148; on indigenous rituals, 152; on Christian symbols, 159; on coca, 240 actions, 254 advocates of the Indians, 192, 232, 252 Afro-­Peruvian concepts of maleficio, 206, 266 Afro-­Peruvian ritual specialists, 2, 224, 227; on Incas and coca, 225. See also interactions agnus dei amulets, 147, 148 Agrippa von Nettesheim, 187 Aguado, Teresa de, 206 Aguardiente, 7, 225 Ají, 51 alabaster (piedra Huamanga), 162, 170, 189, 241 Albarade, Melchor, 212 Albornoz, Cristóbal de, 18, 50, 51, 53, 168, 225, 226, 261 alchemist, 234, 236, 237 alchemy, 246 Aldadado, Gerónimo, 246 Aldrovandi, Ulisse, 241 Almagro, Diego de, 29 Altamirano, Diego Francisco, 153, 157 Altomisayuq, 100, 168, 173, 260 Álvarez, Bartolomé, 105, 106 Amaru, 94 Amauta, 1, 137 Amazonian cultures, 88 Amazon region, 7, 87, 145 Ammann, Paul, 200

ancestors, 22, 71, 102, 108, 110, 170, 188. See also mallquis Anco, Joseph, 211 Andagua, 229 Andahuaylas, 50 Andahuaylillas, 210, 211 Andean and Incan canon of sins, 11, 38, 39, 41 Andean-­Christian dialogue, 3, 100, 192, 250, 255, 257, 259, 264, 267, 268 Andean-­Christian transcultural dynam­ ics, 14, 267 Andean commoners, 4, 5, 12, 137, 151, 175, 176, 180, 182; assimilations, 155, 158, 229, 266; beliefs in maleficio, 193, 228, 230. See also assimilations Andean concept of fertility, 6, 72, 173, 175, 176, 220, 241, 257, 267; and mountains, 24; and huacas, 83, 85, 86; Para­ cas, 90; huacanqui, 96; and mall­ quis, 142; and yllas, 169, 171; and conopas, 170 Andean concept of harm, 192, 193, 197, 200, 221, 222, 228, 266 Andean concept of nature, 3, 6, 12, 192, 193, 259, 260, 262, 268. See also Andean concept of embodiment Andean concept of sickness or health, 3, 6, 14, 68, 96, 176, 257, 259, 265; in Inca times, 11, 38, 39, 40, 41; and sacred geography, 13; Taki Onkoy, 50, 52, 75, 76, 77; distinction between Spanish and Andean sicknesses, 182; dissatisfaction of huacas, 261; hope in health, 267 Andean concept of social harmony, 3, 6 Andean concept of the coexistence of cultures, 3, 6, 14, 76, 258, 259, 260, 263, 265; Taki Onkoy, 53; during the seventeenth century, 154, 156, 158 Andean concept of the embodiment of

444  The power of huacas powers, 3, 6, 8, 12, 13, 14, 141, 157, 206; Huayna Capac, 70; and distrust in Catholic objects, 173; and Andean objects, 183; as cultural parameter, 259, 260, 261, 262, 265 Andean concepts of human powers, 15 Andean cosmology, 174, 215 Andean diagnosis and therapy of sicknesses, 183 Andean dualities, 96, 128, 141 Andean figurines, 140, 204 Andean herbal knowledge, 22, 238 Andean memory, 70, 97, 99, 166, 259, 260; death without commemoration, 97, 265; memory of the Incas, 191 Andean myths, 6 Andean notion of the holy, 70, 75, 76, 146, 253, 259, 260, 262. See also Andean notion of embodiment Andean notions about transformation, 12, 96 Andean objects/instruments, 5, 255, 257, 260, 267, 271. See also coca, cuys, feathers, maize, plants, powders, sebo, stones, toads, yllas Andean practices, 267 Andean religious specialists, 2, 3, 8, 13, 23, 29, 32, 40, 44, 98, 112, 128; as priests, 1; as heirs of the Inca, 49, 256; and Christianity as a problem, 68, 76; their communication with huacas, 83, 249, 257; and the powers of birds, 85, 87, 91; concept of the Andean religious specialist, 86; and wind, 108; in the seventeenth century, 136; their resistance toward Catholic objects, 137, 153, 154, 166, 167, 171, 173, 261, 265; on assimilation toward Christianity, 155, 156, 261; their invocation of saints and God, 172, 173; as diviner, specialist in fertility, and healer, 177, 257; trust in Inca power, 181; and the color white, 189; their changing role and function, 192, 254, 257, 262; as healers of maleficios, 193, 206; as herbalists, 198; of the high Andes, 254; as man-

agers of virtues, 260; their integration of Catholic objects in rituals, 262 Andean symbols, 6, 257, 261, 271 angels, 106, 127. See also Andean objects and birds, bezoar stones, coca, the color white, fat, huacanquis, stones, villca, yllas animism, 70 Antarqui, 61, 62 Anti, 36 Antidotes, 202, 222, 241, 242, 262. See also contrahierba, villca antiquarianism, 192, 253, 270 Antisuyo, 36 ape, 131 Apollo, 104 Apus, 76, 96, 128, 173, 268 Areche, José Antonio de, 230 Arequipa, 14, 130, 132, 133, 149, 256, 264; during the eighteenth century, 229, 230, 231 Arriaga, Pablo José de, 18, 43, 113, 116, 117, 118, 121, 124, 200; on the extirpation of idolatry, 119, 127; on the casa Santa Cruz, 123; as visitator, 124; on hierarchical classification of sorcerers, 124; on Lima’s discourse on magic, 125; on chupadores, 126, 261; on gestures, 143; on rosaries, 153; his own archaeological search, 157; on assimilation, 159; on Santiago, 162; on evil spells, 203, 204; on huacan­ quis, 226, 227; on coca, 240; on actions, 255 Asnarán, Maria Isidora, 122 assimilations, 7, 8, 9, 13, 229, 258, 262, 264, 266, 271 astrologer, talismanic, 236, 237. See also Sarmiento de Gamboa astrology, 246 Asunción, 230 Atacama desert, 87, 223 Atahualpa, 29, 59; conflict with Huas­ car, 195 Atavillos Altos, 196 Atuncar, Domingo, 231

index  445 Audiencia of Chile, 9 Audiencia of Lima, 9, 56, 205 Audiencia of Quito, 9, 104, 132, 226; during the eighteenth century, 14, 130, 194, 207, 210, 229, 231, 236, 256, 258, 264 Augustine, 16, 21, 42 Augustinians, 35, 105, 137, 255 Augustinians of Huamachuco, 17, 18, 77, 171, 188, 201, 202 Aullagas, 105 Auquivinan, Jerónimo, 190 Aurai Punanqui, Constancia, 170 auto-­da-­fé, 113, 114, 116, 117, 121, 131, 235, 236 Avendaño, Fernando de, 43, 113, 117, 125, 127, 129, 132, 134, 136; on representation, 141; on miracles, 144; as visitator, 204 Ávila, Francisco de, 85, 106, 113, 114, 115, 117, 118, 130, 132, 142, 176, 239; on representation, 141; on worship of statues, 147; on worship of huacas, 158; destruction of huacas, 180; on a spring in the Huarochirí district, 218; on extirpation of idolatry, 256 Ayahuasca, 87, 218 Ayar Auca, 69, 95 Ayar Uchu, 69, 95 Ayaviri, 177 Ayllu, 7, 39, 71, 92, 100, 122, 139, 176, 180, 260; and huacas, 75, 76, 92; and prosperity, 102; protection against Spaniards, 165; and figurines, 204 Ayni, 102, 193 Bacon, Francis, 195, 198, 240, 247 Badiano, Juan, 199 Balbue, Catalina, 205 Baldung, Hans, 68 Bandier, César, 233, 234, 235, 236, 237, 243, 268 Barzana, Alonso de, 30, 62, 63 Basaquillo, Lorenzo, 210 Basse, Nikolaus, 200 Bauhin, Caspar, 200 beans, 84, 189, 209

Bellezo, Anna, 214 Bermúdez de la Torre y Solier, Pedro José, 246 Bertonio, Ludovico, 43, 104, 139 bezoar stones, 6, 168, 169, 241, 242, 270 birds, 12, 28, 80; condor, 35, 81, 83, 92, 130, 206, 226, 230; swift, 81, 83; falcon, 81, 83; their veneration in the Andes, 87; feathers, 88, 175, 183, 217, 227; birds and healers, 88; owls, 88; in Amazonian cultures, 88; hummingbirds, 89; macaws, 89; flamingos, 89; connection with plants, 90, 91; birds as symbol of life, 91, 102 Bisselius, Johannes, 241 Bitti, Bernardo, 134 Blas Valera, 39, 41, 62, 139, 223 blood, 17, 52, 75, 77, 125, 126, 164, 176, 203, 249 bocado, 197, 221. See also poisons Bodin, Jean, 204 Boerhaave, Hermann, 251 Borgia, Francisco, 63 Borracheras, 19, 127, 203 Botero, Giovanni di, 109 Boyle, Robert, 251 Bracamonte, Didacus, 63 bruja, 206, 211, 212. See also witches Bueno, Cosme, 245, 247, 250, 252, 270 butterflies, 69, 75 Cabredo, Rodrigo de, 31, 136, 143, 145, 146, 167 Cáceres, Antonio, 128, 129 Cacha, 36 Cajamarca, 14, 29, 132, 229, 230, 232, 264 Cajatambo, 44, 133, 165, 184, 185, 206 Calancha, Antonio de la, 23, 24, 25, 222, 241, 242 Camac, Juan, 177 Camaquen, 100 Camascas, 77, 80, 81, 82, 83, 85, 137, 260; powers of a camasca, 87, 102, 103 Campeche, 178 Cañares, 90, 226 Caquiaviri, 135 Carabuco, 27, 28, 30, 33, 35, 38, 135, 160,

446  The power of huacas 161; image of hell, 26, 27, 43, 44, 134; cross, 34, 35, 38, 130, 144 Cárdenas, Juan de, 196 Caribbean, 199, 205, 219, 225, 261 Cartagena, 131, 227 Carua Chumbi, Inés, 128, 173 Carvachin, Hernando, 179 casa Santa Cruz, prison, 116, 122, 123, 133 Castañega, Martín de, 17, 22, 23, 79, 126, 159, 199 Castrillo, Hernando, 237, 241, 243, 244, 269 Castro, Don Diego de, 137 Catacaos, Juliana, 205 Catequil, 71, 72, 77 Catholic confessor as medical doctor, 42 Catholic discourse about representation versus embodiment, 137, 138, 139, 140, 146, 173 Catholic images, 43, 46, 50, 127, 134, 135, 138, 140, 168, 266 Catholic objects, 142, 146, 150, 258 Catholic orthodoxy, 36, 268, 269 Chancas, 71, 109 Chancay culture, 204 Chanchan, María, 184 Charcas, 9, 33, 48, 105, 236 Charimango, 23, 24, 85 Charles V, 48 Chaupij Loraz Chaupi, Hernando, 142, 170 Chavín, 71, 87, 90, 155, 259 Checacupe, 160 chest, 69 chicha, 7, 74, 78, 203, 212, 225; sprinkling, 45, 176; spilling, 115; with mollo, 160; as Andean offerings, 175, 184; in use by Andean religious specialists, 177, 180, 183 Chiclayo, 111 Chiriguanos, 48 chiromancer, 236, 237 chiromancy, 187 Choque, Catalina, 211 Choque, Isabel, 180 Christian apocalypse, 219

Christian concept of representation versus Andean concept of embodiment, 3, 70, 137, 141 Christian concept of the holy, 4 Christian concept of the natural, the supernatural, and the preternatural, 3, 85, 86, 101, 108, 174, 247, 253, 254, 260, 263; critique of, 270 Christian cross, 74, 145, 149, 168 Christian God, 24, 36, 42, 50, 61, 63, 68, 74, 91, 104; power to resurrect, 77; omnipotence, 85, 159, 166; in the discourse on extirpation of idolatry, 121, 127; in Andean perception, 136; his powers, 143, 147, 149, 152; in nature, 159; in Andean invocations, 168, 171, 172, 173; miraculous intervention, 248, 249, 258 Christian images, 4, 152 Chucuito, 31, 33, 168 Chumbi, Juana, 172 Chumbiconu, María, 121 Chumbivilca, 133, 208 Chumbu Julla, María, 121 Chumiguaman, Xristoval, 182 Chunchos, 238 Chupaca, 205, 206 chupadores, 125, 126. See pishtacu Chuquiabo, 24 Chuquisaca, 24, 34, 48 Cieza de León, Pedro, 17, 18, 92, 188, 200, 203, 251 Ciruelo, Pedro, 22, 23, 56, 199 Cisneros, Gregorio de, 140, 153 Cisneros y Mendoza, Don Francisco de, 205 civil authorities, 21, 47, 55, 56, 207, 256, 258, 264 civil legislation against hechizeros, 56 Clavius, Christoph, 238 coast, 258, 261; coastal-­highland divide, 266 Cobo, Bernabé, 19, 125, 129, 189, 203, 214, 215, 217, 218; on coca, 239, 240, 241; on bezoar stones, 241; as natural scientist, 243, 244, 270 coca leaves, 74, 84, 118, 130, 146, 170, 173,

index  447 175, 176, 185, 206; in use by Spanish, Creole, and Afro-­Peruvian ritual specialists, 193, 227, 228; tied to figurines, 205; in use by Andean religious specialists, 209; coca sellers, 236; Creole and European interest in coca, 239, 240 Cocobola, Luisa, 206 Colegio de San Pablo, 150 collas, 28, 39, 141 Collasuyo, 28, 35, 226 colonial libraries, 5, 114, 144, 244, 246, 256 color black, 130, 187, 205, 215 color blue, 186 colored objects, 187 colored powders, 7, 84, 146, 175, 183, 184, 187, 228, 230; blowing of powders, 182, 187, 225 color red, 187 color white, 84, 130, 162, 183, 184, 186, 188, 189, 266; white powder, 172; and Inca heritage, 190 color yellow, 186, 188 Concepción de Chupas, 43 Conchuco, 133 confession, 5, 115, 132, 135; private, 5; public, 5, 120, 124; false confession, 38; Jesuits on confession, 38, 42; dissimilation in confession, 38; abstinence from confession, 39 confessional manuals, 17, 45, 46, 139, 156 confessions, 26, 35, 41 confessor, 1, 266. See also ychuris confraternities/cofradías, 133, 158, 266 Coninck, Juan Ramón, 244, 245 conopas, 140, 141, 145, 169, 176; symbolic link with fertility, 170 contrahierba, 202, 222, 223, 224. See also antidotes Contreras, Ana María de, 131 conversion, 12, 35, 38, 46, 59, 72, 97, 134, 144, 153, 192 Cordova, María de, 131 Coroza, 121, 131 Council of Trent, 35, 268 Coyallu, 80

Coyllas, 29, 89, 188 craziness, 218, 219 Creole, mestizo and mulatto forms of hechizería, 10, 131, 150, 268 Creole experts, 239 Creole lands, 150 Creole nationhood, 231 Creole ritual specialists, 2, 192, 268. See also Spanish ritual specialists Creole society, 15, 65, 149, 150, 270 cross of Pachacamac, 144 cross of Santa Cruz de la Sierra, 144 Cruz, Fray Francisco de la, 60, 64, 65 Cruz, Martín de la, 199 cultural parameters, 259, 265, 267 Cuni Raya, 81, 90 Curacas, 29, 53, 118, 119, 164 Cuys, 84, 118, 176, 183; white cuys, 184, 189 Cuzco, 5, 9, 43, 69, 89, 94, 104, 130, 133, 208; eighteenth century, 14, 229, 232, 264; Inca identity, 28; Jesuit mission, 31, 256; Inca heritage, 40, 194; Tupac Amaru, 48, 57; Albornóz, 50; Juan de Luna, 54 Dahomey, 205, 225 Dario, Lucan, 152 death, 42, 49, 52, 68, 69, 76, 82, 88, 98, 102, 148; signs of death, 45; Huayna Capac’s, 75, 97; liberation from death, 156; as caused by maleficio, 206, 211, 221 Delrío, Martín, 22, 120, 129, 132, 204, 236, 245, 247; and Ávila, 114, 116, 117 demonic magicians, 117, 199 demons, 11, 22, 23, 24, 25, 34, 64, 65, 78, 101, 132, 194; devil, 12, 16, 38, 55, 61, 85, 86, 125, 130, 201, 233, 249; Cieza on demons, 18; Murúa on demons, 21; communication with Andean religious specialists, 105, 106, 111, 115, 202; hechizeros and demons, 106, 129, 243, 247, 260; pacts with the devil, 122, 133; cross against demons, 146; and hallucinogens, 203; and coca, 240; and statues, 245; demonic

448  The power of huacas actions, 254; satanic omnipresence, 263; demonic magic, 270 destruction, 6, 71, 72, 75, 76, 98, 141 dialectical process, 3, 254, 255, 257 Diez de Betanzos, Juan, 18, 139, 140 Dioscorides, 241 discourse on Creole, Afro-­Peruvian, and mixed-­raced hechizeros, 128 discourse on hechizería, 5, 13, 14, 20, 23, 267. See also hechizería disempowerment of Andean healers, 192 divination, 19, 62, 79, 111, 183, 184, 203, 205, 215, 257 diviner, 1, 28, 111. See also Andean religious specialists, spiders, beans, coca leaves, dreams, maize dog, 92, 179, 188 dogmatizadores, 56, 57, 256, 258 Domingo de Santo Tomás, 30, 64, 139, 168 Dominicans, 19, 31, 33, 64, 256 Don Rupaichahua, 123 dreams, 1, 36, 83, 125, 130, 164 drugs, 238. See also herbs drum, 18, 26, 44, 45, 115 Dürer, Albrecht, 68, 130 earthquakes in Lima, 63, 235, 247, 248 eclipse, 63 Eguíluz, Diego de, 133 elm tree, 108 Enlightenment ideas, 270 epidemics, 68, 69, 76, 149, 163, 164 erudite magic, 21, 22, 233 Escalante, Tadeo, 220 Esmeraldas, 207 ethnic conflict, 229 ethnographers, 256, 270 Eucharist, 138, 142, 143 European botanists, 199, 239 European cabinets of curiosity, 242 European demonology, 78, 79, 258, 263; critique of, 14, 232, 250, 251; and insanity, 38; during the seventeenth century, 86, 128, 132, 133; different

types, 113; and notions of maleficio, 193, 200, 230 European discourse on fabricating figurines and on inflicting harm, 6, 204 European discourse on magic, 3, 7, 12, 14, 17, 18, 105, 110, 257, 263, 268; and its legal heritage, 20; and erudite magic, 22; and Delrío, 112, 143; and maleficio, 224; distinction between natural, demonic, and technical magic, 269, 270 European magi, 25, 85, 86, 110, 117, 187, 188, 236, 244 Eusevio de la Peña, Thomas, 210 evangelization, 142, 143, 238, 257 evil harm/evil sorcery, 14, 194, 201, 208, 210, 228, 230, 258, 260 exorcism, 38, 64, 74, 79, 142, 144 extirpation of idolatry, 2, 50, 108, 113, 118, 120, 132, 257 Eymerich, Nicolaus, 114, 117, 119, 120, 121 fat, 5, 6; body fat, 49, 52, 75, 77, 125, 126; as instrument of Andean religious specialists, 128, 170, 167, 171, 175, 181, 183, 185, 205, 206; as symbol of life, 170; and yllas, 173; as symbol of luck, 171; applied to figures, 205; and suspicion of maleficio, 200, 201, 202, 203, 204; toads and lizards wrapped in fat, 209 fears, 23, 24, 25, 258, 259; Spanish ones, Andean ones, 263 Feijoo y Montenegro, Benito, 250 felines, 71, 84, 307 Fernández de Oviedo y Valdés, Gonzalo, 126 Ferreñafe, 223 Ficino, Marsilio, 187, 188 Figueroa y Portocarrero, Pablo, 212 First Council of Lima, 56, 122, 198 Flores, Juan, 183 Florez, Garpan, 130 flute, 26, 44, 290 flying beings, 90, 92 fox, 92, 218

index  449 Franciscans, 19, 137, 159, 198, 200, 238, 243, 269; in Ocopa, 246 Fray Francisco de Salamanca, 219 Frézier, Amédée, 149, 241 frog, 219 Galileo Galilei, 251 gap between theory and practice, 255 García Julcapuma, Francisco, 164, 171, 189 Garcilaso de la Vega, 195, 196, 251 Gaxa Guaman, Diego, 187 goat, 130, 131 gold and silver, 159 Gonzales, Augustina, 205 González Holguín, Diego, 30, 36, 21, 139, 168, 197, 225 Granero de Avalos, Alonso Ramírez, 33 Guaman, Francisca, 212, 213 Guaman, Francisco, 206 Guaman, Marcelo, 226 Guaman Poma de Ayala, Felipe, 18, 28, 35, 36, 37, 51, 107, 141, 170, 202, 217; on the execution of Tupac Amaru, 57, 58; on Huayna Capac’s death, 97, 98, 102; on chupadores, 126; on images of the Last Judgement, 134; on distribution of devotional objects, 153; on the hampicocs, 196, 197; on interaction between hechizeros and demons, 203; on toads, 214, 261; on the vacanquis, 225; picture of a hechi­ zera, 227; on Inca Topa Yupanqui, 249 Guaman Vilca, Pedro, 208 guanacos, 241 Guanico, María, 121, 176, 177, 190 Guaranís, 48, 245 Guayllas, Fernando, 211 Guerrero, Lobo, 118, 238 Gutiérrez de Logroño, 236, 237 hairs, 197, 201, 205, 208, 209, 210, 230, 252 hallucinogens, 6 (spiritual flight, 87), 203, 204, 218, 219, 220, 223, 228, 261

hampicoc, hambicamayo, 196, 222 Hanan Pacha, 92 Hapiñunos, 33, 93 Hapsburgs, 88 harp, 44 healers/curanderos, 111, 168, 185, 200, 210, 218, 234, 257, 258, 266. See also Andean religious specialists hechizería, 2, 54, 124, 229, 231, 260; Jesuits and hechizería, 10, 31, 256; concept of, 11; in the eighteenth century, 264 hechizeros/sorcerers, 1, 31, 67, 100, 208, 243, 254, 256; as devil worshippers, 106, 111, 256, 263; equation with the heretic, 113, 117, 128, 132, 133; separation from the rest of the population, 132; as semi-­crypto Protestants, 139; denunciations, 164, 172, 257, 262; from Chachapoyas, 196; as evil sorcerers, 198, 202 hell, 26, 30, 135, 218, 258, 263; depiction in the Monastery of La Merced, 219; depiction in Huaro, 220 herbalist, 1, 171, 185, 197, 198, 199, 221, 238 herbs, 84, 208, 222, 227, 252; Inca knowledge of herbs, 194, 222, 224 heresy, 42, 117, 132, 233, 234, 237 Hernández, Bartolomé, 63 Hernández, Francisco, 199, 241 Hernández Príncipe, Rodrigo, 153 Herrera, Luís Fernández de, 172 hierba mate or hierba de Paraguay, 242, 252 homogenous society, 231 hospital San Bartholomew, 248 hospital Santa Ana, 122, 123, 235 huacanquis, 226, 227 huacas, 6, 8, 12, 217, 259; Andean belief in huacas, 14, 257, 268; and demons, 17; their relation to “sin,” 41, 44; and the Taki Onkoy, 50, 52; local huacas, 71, 75, 77; destroyed huacas, 77; relics of, 78; resurrection of huacas, 79; their powers, 84, 87, 89, 92, 102; and transformation, 101; and commemo-

450  The power of huacas ration, 103, 187, 260, 265; as apparitions, 130, 136, 164, 179; wrath of, 186; enemy huaca, 217; neglect of huacas, 221; and harm, 228; veneration during the eighteenth century, 231; and treasures, 236; and chewing coca leaves, 239; as guardians, 257; as incorporated powers, 259 Huacho, 44 Huainacota, 246 Huallallo Carvincho, 94 Huamalí, 133 Huamanga, 53, 69, 131, 133, 170, 256 Huamantanga, 122, 123, 175, 179, 182, 226 Huanacauri, 95 Huánuco, 133 Huaraz, 133, 221 Huarmey, 206 Huaro, 135, 160 Huarochirí, 31, 80, 114, 115, 133, 170, 175, 208, 210, 219, 239 Huarochirí Manuscript, 4, 71, 80, 85, 90, 93, 94, 215, 218 Huauquis, 140, 168 Huran, Pablo, 130 Hurtado de Mendoza, Luis, 210, 211 Ibaseta, Gregorio, 213 idolatrous dancing and drinking, 93 idolatry, 22, 38, 41, 47, 192, 230, 232, 243, 254, 263; definition, 2, 16, 19; ancient idolatry, 104; Toledo’s vision, 53 idols, 5, 12, 108, 133, 172; burning of, 121 Illapa, lightning and thunder, 71, 94, 160, 162, 168, 215, 258, 262, 268; powers bestowed on Andean religious specialists, 82, 83 Inca and prophesies, 109 Inca culture, 71, 72, 87, 140, 215 Inca Huayna Capac, 68, 69, 70, 72, 81, 97, 103, 202 Inca Mayta Capac, 68, 194, 195 Inca notions of sin, 38, 40 Inca officials, 202 Inca Orcon, 141

Inca Pachacuti Yupanqui, 28, 96, 109, 110 Incas as guarantors of health and providers of fertility, 13, 186, 190 Inca Tawantinsuyo, 8, 36, 139, 155, 195 Inca Titu Cusi Yupanqui, 49, 137, 223 Inca Tupac Yupanqui, 62, 249 Indian-­Christian Catechism, 74, 214 indigenous medicinal knowledge, 239 indoctrination, 133 indulgence, 248 Inga, Pedro, 190 Inka Tupac Amaru, 11, 29, 48, 49, 53, 57, 58, 59, 61, 121 Inquisition, 5, 51, 60, 64, 110, 114, 128, 132, 188, 210, 233, 234, 236; and erudite magic, 237 interactions between Afro-­Peruvian, Creole, and Andean religious specialists, 13, 15, 191, 192, 224, 254, 262, 268; on coca, 241 intra-­Andean religious conflicts, 71 invocations of the saints, 8, 168 jaguar, 217 Jesuit church in Cuzco, 42 Jesuit missions, 11, 12, 41, 47, 49, 62, 66, 126, 133, 134, 152; scientific interests, 238, 245, 256, 264; persecutions, 258; on Lake Titicaca, 30, 31, 33, 38; in Paraguay, 31, 238, 245 Jesuit network, 243 Jesuit pharmacy, 222 Jesuits, 4, 5, 23, 31, 35, 41, 255, 256; organization of the order, 15, 19; on confessions, 26, 41, 257; on Andean sins, 44; on missionary strategies, 46; and “speaking idols” 105, 108; their belief in powerful objects and images, 146; language of symbols, 158; on hechi­ zeros as confessors, 192; on hechi­ zeros as curanderos, 192; interest in nature, 14, 192, 237, 245, 258, 264; as experts on nature, 228, 232, 239, 241, 242, 243; in view by Bandier, 233, 252; interest in materia médica, 238; as true religious specialists, 238; on

index  451 bezoar-­stones, 241; on miracles, 249; disempowering Andean religious specialists, 258; as healers, 258 Juan de la Cruz, 178 Julí, 30, 31, 32, 104, 133, 155, 182, 197, 242, 256 Junín, 183, 189, 224 Kallawaya, 28, 100, 171 Karishiri, 126 Kay Pacha, 92 Kircher, Athanasius, 238, 241, 243, 244, 245, 270; Itinerarium exstaticum, 246; on technical magic, 14, 232; reception of, 247, 248, 250, 251, 270 Kostka, Stanislao, 249 Kuti, 197 Lake Titicaca, 27, 33, 35, 47, 148, 215 Laraos, 232 Lartaún, Sebastián de, 51 Las Casas, Bartolomé de, 64 Laureano de Mena, José, 236 Lauxa, 118 law of nature, 233, 234, 237, 251 layca, 1, 21, 28, 197, 202 L’Ecluse, Charles, 200, 239, 241 León Pinelo, Antonio de, 244 León y Becerra, Antonio de, 132 Libiac, 119, 124, 164, 206 Lima, 2, 5, 9, 30, 105, 114, 149, 232, 234, 256; archdiocese, 11, 12, 47, 104, 111, 119, 133, 194, 229, 256 llamas, 41, 175, 183, 189, 202, 215, 217, 241; llama blood, 175 Llano y Zapata, José Eusebio de, 245, 247, 248, 249, 250, 252 Loaysa, Jerónimo de, 60 logic of Andean culture/religion/ rituals, 10, 25, 97, 137, 165, 182, 190, 257, 259, 263, 265, 266, 268 López, Luis, 62, 63, 64, 65 López de Haro, Antonio, 59 López de los Rios, José, 26, 27, 38 love magic, 131, 143, 168, 187, 193, 224, 226, 227, 228

Luna, Juan de, 54, 55, 62 Lupacas, 28, 30 Maca, 129 Maca Calla, 85 Macuychauca, Marcelo, 208 Magdalena, Martha, 121 magnet, 143, 227, 228 Magnus, Olaus, 219 maize, 84, 129, 146, 189, 205, 208; maize cake, 178, 183. See also zanko (sanco); zara mama, 204 maleficio, 19, 126, 129, 191, 205, 206, 220, 222, 228, 229; Jesuit suspicion, 133; changing concepts and practices of maleficio, 192, 193, 194, 261, 264, 266; suspected acts of maleficio, 209, 223; European concept of remedy, 224; in Pisac, 230 mallquis, 71, 124, 187, 257 Malqui, Francisco, 180, 186 Mama Huaco, 111 Manchay, 80, 91 Manco Capac, 69, 95, 101 Manco Inca Yupanqui, 29 Mangas, 182, 183 Manrique, Michaela, 207 Marcelo, Marcos, 231, 232 Maria de la “O”, 231 Martínez Compañón, Baltasar Jaime, 231 Martínez Guerra, Don Antonio, 205 Mascardi, Nicolás, 244, 245 Mastrillo Durán, Nicolas, 242 materia médica, 193, 199, 238 Matienzo, Juan de, 53, 240 Mayguanco, 190 Medici, 88 Medina, Phelipe de, 133 melancholy, 38, 222, 241 Mendoça, Fray Pedro de, 237 Mendoza, Martín de, 214 Menghi, Girolamo, 144 Mercedarians, 19, 246; library in Cuzco, 246 Merlin, 18

452  The power of huacas Mesas, 6, 7, 8, 111, 137, 153, 166, 167, 225, 266 Mestizaje, 154, 264 Mestizos, 15, 26, 146, 148 Mexico, 16, 77, 88, 110, 196, 199, 227, 236, 269 Micaela, María, 206 miracles, 258, 260 miracle-­working statues, 249, 250 mirrors, 60, 109, 110, 111; as a symbol for the immaculate conception, 111 Moche culture, 71, 87, 223; and birds, 88, 91; mirrors, 110; village of Moche, 164; toads, 215 Mojos, 133, 145, 153, 238, 256 Molina, Cristóbal de, 18, 39, 40, 41, 49, 51, 52, 53, 109, 141, 215; on the Taki Onkoy, 78, 79; on lightning, 82; on feather headdresses, 89; on expelling sickness, 182; on Inca connoisseurs of herbs, 194; on fire in Inca culture, 202; on Moyucati, 217; on the huilcas, 223; on huacanquis, 226 Monardes, Nicolas, 199, 241 Monastery of la Merced, 219 Montesinos, Fernando de, 227 Moquegua, 149 Moscoso y Peralta, Manuel, 230 mosquitoes, 226 mountains as sacred entities, 24, 175. See also apus Mugaburu, José de, 235, 236 Mulattos, 10, 12, 57, 131, 205, 207, 248, 261, 268 Mullu, 53, 120, 160, 215. See also shells multicolored, 114, 186 Murillo Otalora, Bernabé, 248 Murúa, Martín de, 21, 62, 80, 196, 201, 202, 215; Galvin Manuscript, 57, 188, 227; on evil harm, 203; on waxen figures, 204, 261; on huacanquis, 227; on love magic, 227 native plants, 5, 23, 90, 91, 120, 194, 195, 198, 200. See also poisons natural experience, 23, 198, 233, 244; of indigenous people, 269

natural magic, 60, 108, 238, 247, 257, 268, 269 natural philosophy, 143, 192, 232, 242, 243, 246 natural spheres, 3 nature, indoctrination of, 132 Nazca, 88, 140, 154 necromancy/necromancer, 21, 48, 60, 61, 62, 79, 80, 236, 237 Nicolas, Juan, 177 Nieremberg, Eusebius, 238, 241, 243, 244, 247 Nieto, Ursula, 211 Noboa, Bernardo de, 170, 183 non-­human/superhuman powers, 79, 82, 83, 84, 86, 87, 92, 100, 101, 175 Nuestra Señora de la Misericordia, 248 Nuestra Señora de la Soledad, 248 occult qualities, 244, 247, 260, 269 ocean, 131 Ocón, Juan Alonso de, 132 Olaba, Mariana de, 131 Olivera, Luís de, 49 Ollala, María, 130 Ollantaytambo, 217 Omasyuos, 28, 30, 33, 34, 148 Ondores, 190 opium, 203 order of the Christinos, 235 Oré, Luis Jerónimo de, 46, 223 Osma Jaraycejo, Pedro de, 199 Our Lady of Cocharcas, 144, 156 Oyón, 135 Pacariscas, 71 Pachacamac, 72, 144, 204, 215 Pachacuti Yamqui Salcamaygua, Juan de Santa Cruz, 28, 33, 68, 69, 70, 93, 95, 195, 217; on the battle against the Chancas, 96 Pallas, Gerónimo, 126 Paracas culture, 87, 88, 90, 91 Paracelsus, 187 Pararín, 221 Paria Caca, 85, 94 Parinacochas, 50

index  453 passion fruit, 159 Patiño, Francisco, 132 Paucar, Hernando, 106, 113, 114, 115, 116, 117 Paz, Juan de, 206 Peña Montenegro, Alonso de la, 21, 144, 204, 210, 261 penance, 39, 135 Pérez Bocanegra, Juan, 46, 171, 227 periphery, 229, 231, 232 persecution of Andean religious specialists, 13, 14, 113, 132, 229, 257, 258, 263. See also extirpation of idolatry persecution of Spanish, Creole and Afro-­Peruvian ritual specialists, 5, 214, 261, 268 Petrona, Maria, 211 Philip II, 31, 47, 61, 63, 110, 114, 269 physical abnormalities, 83 Picinelli, Filippo, 159 pierced objects, 201, 204, 205, 228, 266. See also toads Pikillaqta, 204 pirates, 199, 235 Pisac, 212, 230 Pishtacu, 77, 126 Pizarro, Francisco, 29, 68 Pizarro, María, 64 Planes, Jerónimo, 38 Plateaus, Jakob, 200 Pliny, 143, 213 poisons/lethal plants, 194, 198, 205, 217, 220, 221, 222, 223, 228; applied to Andean objects, 262; Acosta, 148; Murúa, 196; Gonzáles Holguín, 197; Augustinians, 202 Polo de Ondegardo, Juan, 38, 39, 41, 62, 79, 89, 124, 140, 213, 215, 227; on fly‑ ing hechizeros, 80, 91; on camascas, 82; on Andean sins, 46; on lightning, 82; on divination, 83; on sacrifice, 84; on trade with shells, 160; on yllas, 168; on expelling sickness, 182; used by Cobo, 243; and Castañega, 17, 18 Pomachumbi, María, 122 Pomacocha, 189 Pomponazzi, Pietro, 235

Pope Clemens XII, 248 Potosí, 48, 105, 131, 157, 240, 251 primordial wisdom in the New World and in Europe, 269 prisons, 32, 33, 53, 55, 122, 136, 156, 196, 197, 210. See also casa Santa Cruz Pucará, 72, 93, 215, 216 Pucyura, 161 puma, 125, 130, 217 Punchao, 57, 59, 130 punishment of Andean religious specialists, 5, 113, 118, 132, 213 puppets, 8, 197, 201, 206, 208, 228, 261; piercing of, 14 purgatory, 43, 135 Qero, 26, 27, 184, 196 Qoricancha, 28, 61, 71, 95, 140, 202 Quijano Bevellos, Pedro de, 179 quinine, 242 Quiñones, Ramírez de, 59 Quinti, 189 quipucamayocs, 45, 75, 108, 109, 194, 195 Quispe Tito, Diego, 220 racial bias, 206, 207 Ramos Gavilán, Alonso, 21, 28, 34, 143, 147 Ratio studiorum, 244 redefinition of indigenous sins, 30, 45; veneration of llallahua, 45; keeping a pirva, 45; sprinkling the sun, 45; owl’s song or a dog’s yowl as a sign of death, 45 re-­education, 47, 132, 133, 200, 258 Reformation, trauma of, 263 relics, 146, 147, 149, 150, 151, 153, 233 Remón, Alonso, 227 republics, three different ones: Creole Catholic, Andean-­Christian, Andean, 151, 154, 163, 165, 262 resistance against Christian evangelization, 8, 9, 13, 142 Rimachi Maita, Antonio, 210 rituals of healing, 170, 177, 179, 180, 181, 182, 184, 190, 203, 205, 231, 257; connections with huacas, 183, 185;

454  The power of huacas dependence of human beings on huacas, 190 river, 40, 121, 142, 146, 176, 181, 182, 184, 194, 206 Rome, 62, 63, 64, 124, 243 Rosa, Diego de la, 187, 214, 236 Rosa Pinto, Juan, 207 rosaries, 127, 150, 152, 153, 154, 156, 166, 167, 168 Ruiz de Portillo, Hieronymus, 62, 63 Sabaya, 105 sacred geography, 13, 76, 96, 98, 175, 176, 179, 180 sacrifices by Andean religious specialists, 17, 39, 41, 51, 83, 84, 115, 128, 140, 153 Sacsayhuaman, 22, 63, 99, 249, 251 Sahagún, Bernardino de, 199 Saint Anthony the Abbot, 162 Saint Bartholomew, 36, 37, 155, 162 Saint Cyprian, 162 Saint Francis, 162, 163 Saint Ignatius, 136, 146, 147, 153; his handwriting, 142, 147 Saint Rose, 149 Saint Thomas, 34, 36, 252 Saint worship, 133, 155, 157 Salombrini, Agustin, 222, 238, 240 Sánchez Labrador, José, 245 San Francisco de Caxamarquilla, 184 San Francisco de Mangas, 142, 170 Sania, María, 172 San Jerónimo, 160 San Lorenzo de Quinti, 184 San Marcos University, 64, 113, 115 San Martín de Porres, 149, 207 San Pedro cactus, 84, 87, 88, 203 Santa Cruz de la Sierra, 9, 144, 147, 157 Santa María de Peña de Francia, 188 Santa Rosa de Ocopa, 246 Santiago, 83, 160, 177, 178, 206, 258, 262, 268. See also Illapa Santiago de Cercado, 31 Santiago de Chile, 114, 238, 256 Santiago de Chipao, 214 Santiago “Mataindios” 160, 161, 188

Santo Domingo de Cochalaraos, 172 Santo Tomás de Rondocán, 211, 212 Sarmiento de Gamboa, Pedro, 18, 47, 48, 49, 59, 64, 160, 195, 237; on Inca Pachacuti, 109, 110; on flying hechi­ zeros, 82; his astrology, 60; on Inca kings, 60; on Antarqui, 61,62, 79; on transformation into stones, 93, 95; and mirrors, 110; on representation, 140; on fire in Inca culture, 202; on huacanquis, 226 Sarmiento de Vivero, Juan, 121, 123, 172, 175, 180, 186 Sayhuite, 99, 215 scholasticism, 224, 232, 270; anti-­ scholastic movement, 252 Schott, Caspar, 238, 241, 243, 244, 246, 250, 251 Second Council of Lima, 33, 56, 198, 240 secular clergy, 5, 19, 50, 113, 144 seeds, 91, 208, 209 Señor de los Milagros, 248, 249 Seville, 4, 148, 235 shells, 89, 160, 167, 183, 187, 208. See also mullu Siete partidas, 204 silk, 115, 205 silver, 17, 57, 109, 115, 156, 159, 160, 170, 209, 176, 242 simulacrum, 203, 204, 205 Sinchi Roca Inca, 36 slavery, 205 smoke, 7, 225 snakes, 38, 130, 203, 205, 214, 218, 221, 230; double-­headed Amaru, 218 social harmony, 231 Solis de Quinti, Pedro, 121 Solomon Islands, 61 Solso, Juan, 205 sorcery, 2, 16, 205. See also hechizería, maleficio Sor Juana, 246 Sosa, María, 236 Spain, 20, 21, 23, 50, 55, 56, 148, 149, 199 Spanish medical doctors, 199 Spanish ritual specialists, 2, 224, 227. See also interactions

index  455 speaking statues, 245 spiders, 1, 84, 111, 177, 214 Spinoza, Baruch, 235 spirits, 8. See also aguardiente spiritual flights, 87 spondylus shell, 160, 161, 168. See also mullu, shells Stansel, Valentin, 246 stars/comets, 245 statue of Apollo, 245 stones, 12, 22, 203, 208, 252 (see also transformation and Andean concept of embodiment); house of stone, 69, 97; and embodiment, 97, 99; as symbol of the sacred, 98, 175; and “life,” 100, 102; and demons, 101; and memory, 102, “speaking” stones as talking demons, 106; as healing objects, 183; the highest level of powers, 260 Suarez Grande, Ygnacio, 210 sun, 108, 188, 202, 268 supernatural spheres/powers, 3, 249. See also Christian concept of the natural superstition, 2, 16, 19, 44, 47, 131, 231, 254 Surichaca, Sebastiana, 205, 206 Suyca, Diego, 214 Suyo o Cargua, Alvira, 121 sympathetic magic, 8, 13, 14, 192, 193, 201, 203, 206, 254, 261, 265 Tairona, 87 Taki Onkoy, 11, 13, 48, 49, 50, 51, 52, 54, 59, 62, 75, 77, 97, 98, 164; and camascas, 82; on resurrection of huacas, 85; and an Andean notion of sickness, 125, 185; on fat, 181; on juxtaposition of two cultures, 182, 258, 265; pan-­Andean resistance, 257 talking images/objects, 249 Tambo Tocco, 28 Tanedor, Santiago, 207 technical magic, 232, 246, 249, 250, 251, 268, 269, 270 teeth, 172, 175, 208, 214 textiles, 175, 176, 177, 181, 190

Third Council of Lima, 17, 49, 67, 106, 111, 122, 124, 138, 150, 200, 256; on confession, 214; on coca, 240 Thomas Aquinas, 2, 16, 22 threads spun to the left, 221, 292, 341 Titu Cusi Yupanqui, 49, 223 Tiwanaku, 71, 72, 73, 87, 93, 155, 215, 223 toads, 8, 14, 86, 201, 203, 206, 208, 212, 215, 217, 233; association with harm, 252, 261; pierced toads, 205, 206, 208, 209, 210; in European thought, 213; Andean association with water, 214, 215, 228, 261; poisonous toads, 217; two-­headed, 218; depiction of, 219, 220; in the hands of Spanish and Afro-­Peruvian ritual specialists, 261 tobacco, 7, 8, 205, 225, 230 Toledo, García de, 64 Toribio de Mogrovejo, Alfonso de, 149 Torreblanca Villalpando, Francisco, 204, 224 Torres Rubio, Diego de, 31 Torres y Zuñiga, Diego, 208, 209 transcultural processes, 192, 193, 194, 200, 205, 259, 262, 267 transformation, 70, 90, 91, 92, 263; of huacas, 92; in stones, 93, 94 transubstantiation, 138 treasures, 236 Tree of Diana, 246 Trujillo, 9, 164, 229, 231, 232, 236, 237, 252, 263; during the eighteenth century, 111, 122, 130, 132 Tucumán, 145, 147, 152, 215, 256 Tulla de Otavalo, Juan de, 207 Tumbes, 29 Tunupa, 33, 35, 36, 93, 95, 97, 98, 155 Ukhu Pacha, 71, 92 Ulloa, Antonio de, 253 Ulloa, Martín de, 233 umo/humu, 21, 28, 202 underworld, 104, 127, 218 ushnu, 34, 73, 74 Valerte, Sebastían, 133 vallaviça, 1, 215

456  The power of huacas Vallejo, Ana, 131 Vandera, Beatriz de la, 131 Vargas, Luisa de, 131 Vega, María de la, 205 veneration of ancestors/mummies, 22, 108, 170, 188. See also ancestors, mallquis Vergara, Alonso Ramírez de, 35 Viceroy Conde de Lemos, 237 Viceroy Conde de Nieva, 60 Viceroy Conde de Santisteban y de la Cueva, 233, 234, 238, 245 Viceroy Don Carmine Nicolao Caracciolo, 246 Viceroy Esquilache, 132, 232 Viceroy Marqués de Montesclaros, 114, 116 Viceroy Toledo, Francisco de, 11, 29, 31, 47, 48, 114, 237, 242; on hechizeros, 53, 54, 56, 57, 59, 62, 256; on Tupac Amaru, 60; and the Jesuits, 63 vicuñas, 241 Vilaoma, 28, 39, 188 Vilasante, Antonio de, 199 Vilca Guaman, Pedro, 122 Vilcabamba, 29, 48, 49, 59, 223 Vilcashuaman, 71 Villagómez, Pedro de, 42, 46, 113, 117, 119, 121, 122, 124, 127, 129, 206; on hechizeros as incarnation of the demonic, 127, 128; as bishop of Arequipa, 132; on rosaries, 152; on be­ zoars, 169; list of sins, 169; on hua­ canquis, 227; on the persecution of curanderos, 200 vilca/villca, 41, 84, 87, 203, 222, 223, 224 Viracocha, 17, 28, 33, 40, 90, 141, 217; Ymaymana Viracocha, 194, 198 Virgen de Cayma, 156 Virgen de Copacabana, 35, 147, 156, 249

Virgen de Guadalupe de Pacasmayo, 156 Virgen de Pomata, 156 Virgin Mary, 130, 143, 144, 155, 167, 168, 181, 233 visitators, ecclesiastical, 23, 116, 118, 119, 120, 121, 126, 127, 134, 172, 207; destruction of idols, 175, 176; civil visitators, 53 voodoo practices, 205 Wari culture, 69, 71, 88, 89, 110, 140 waxen figures, 197, 201, 203, 204, 206, 208, 228. See also puppets weeping statues/objects, 247, 248, 249 whistle, 208 Wier, Johannes, 204 wind, 92, 100, 108 witches, 12, 16, 21, 23, 86, 119, 122, 125, 126, 128, 129, 230; flights of witches, 79, 80; in Trujillo, 130; brujerías, 205, 206, 213, 263; their association with toads, 213 worms, 24, 52, 56, 201, 214, 221, 244 Yaijayauri, Lorenço, 184 Yaután, 119, 183, 190, 221 Ychuris, 1, 35, 38, 39, 41, 44, 192, 255 Ylario Chumbivilca, Juan, 208 yllas, 5, 6, 84, 140, 141, 144, 146, 166, 175, 177; tied to fertility, 145; González Holguín, 168; Villagómez, 169; use by Andean religious specialists, 170, 171, 205 Yoruba, 205 Zahn, Johannes, 238, 241, 243, 246, 248 Zambrago, Urbano, 197 Zambrano, Manuel, 210 zanco (sanco), 40, 84, 183 zankay, 196, 217 Zuñiga, Joannes de, 49, 65