by Clare Bell
“At the end of that period, a great fear falls upon everyone, for as we watch the sun set on the last day of the last year of the ‘bundle,’ we do not know whether it will rise again.”
Mixcatl shivered and moved closer as he spoke in a voice filled with uncertainty and dread. In her imagination she felt as though she had moved back through time to that last day and stood watching.
“In the evening, the red flickers of fires go out one by one, as the order comes to quench them and darkness floods the land. People throw away their possessions to prepare for the end of the world and weep in terror with their families. In the night, anxious crowds gather on the slopes of the great snow-capped mountain above Tenochtitlan. The priests, standing and shivering at the peak, watch the cluster of stars called the Seven Warriors as they rise toward the zenith. Will the stars go on and the world continue? Or will they halt and the monsters who wait behind the twilight come swarming out?
“A sky-watching priest lifts his arm as the constellation nears its height. A prisoner is bent back over a stone altar. With the downstroke of the priest’s arm, so comes the downstrike of the flint knife, opening the victim’s breast so that the ‘precious water’ spurts forth. And in the raw mouth of the wound, the priests spin the firestick until flame leaps up. At the sight and sound of the miracle, the people shout with joy. Messengers light torches to rekindle the cold hearths and run to every part of the valley with the message of life renewed.
“Again the world has escaped its doom, redeemed by the sacrifice and the flames of the New Fire. The monsters stay imprisoned behind the sky, and at dawn, a new sun rises.”
Mixcatl had to shake herself free of the vision, so compelling were Speaking Quail’s words. And when she turned to him, she saw that he was not reciting from the text; he had put the book aside.
“I was there on the mountain slopes as a child, and I will never forget the cold dread that numbed me so deeply that even my father’s arms could not bring the warmth back into my bones,” the teacher said. “When I saw the New Fire and knew the world had been spared, I vowed then to become a priest and spend my life serving the gods.” He paused, reflectively. “Unless I am blessed with many more years than most men, I will not see the next ‘binding of years.’ Perhaps that will be a blessing, for I think my heart may burst with dread if I must face it again.”
In the silence that followed, Mixcatl cupped her chin on her palm. She was young; she would probably live to see the next “binding of years.” Would the world end then, or would another New Fire spring from the breast of a slain sacrifice to rescue the world once again?
Another thought troubled her. Why had she not heard of this before? Had her grandmother, or even her lost mother, ever spoken to her of the world or its ways? Try as she might, she could not remember anything except the green jungle and the grunting cough of jaguars that roamed the night. She had been too young to recall anything as complex as a religion.
The lesson was ended. She bade farewell to Speaking Quail and returned to the House of Scribes.
After Mixcatl could produce well-made sheets of thick, boardlike paper, she learned how to stick them together in strips that were so long that they often reached across the courtyard. All the blank books that the apprentices were working on had to lie parallel to each other, or else they would cross and stick together. Once the strips were dry, each was carefully fan-folded into a large package that could be tucked under the arm for carrying or placed on a shelf for storage.
All this took time. Many thirteen-day stretches passed and Mixcatl learned the sequence of signs by naming them as she lived through each day they governed.
Sometimes she had visits from Six-Wind, who told her the latest gossip of the calmecac, and what he was learning. Sometimes, if she could get out on the quay that fronted the canal, she could see Latosl and exchange a few words with him as he emptied the slopjars and the night-soil baskets into the clay bins on his boat.
Most often, however, her days were filled with work and thoughts of what she had learned from Speaking Quail the previous day. Her ties to the calmecac, her absorption in learning and her promise to Speaking Quail kept her at a distance from her fellow apprentices. All were youths older than she and, despite the stated policy of taking girls if they were exceptional, there were no other young women. The few female students who had previously entered were now at a high level and fairly inaccessible to a young apprentice. When Mixcatl was older and had completed her religious education, the Master of Scribes promised, she would meet some of her sister scribes. For now, she would have to be content in knowing that they existed.
Her progress satisfied the Master of Scribes, for when he questioned her to see how well she had learned the gods, sacrifices and prayers, her answers pleased him. Her instruction at the calmecac was to continue, but she had shown enough dedication so that her provisional status was changed to full acceptance.
Relieved that one hurdle had been cleared, Mixcatl still felt troubled. She knew she had satisfied the Master of Scribes by concealing her feelings about what she was learning. By now she had become familiar with the primary figures of the religion. It was Tlaloc, the grotesque-faced rain god, who sent the clouds to water crops. Xipe Totec, the Flayed One, symbolized the renewal of the earth in fresh growth. Coatlicue, She-of-the-Serpent-Skirt, was celebrated as mother of innumerable gods. Tezcatlipoca, Smoking Mirror, who took on the fascinating aspect of a dancing jaguar, played his part as guardian of death and youth. Indeed, he was starting to rise above the rest of the pantheon to challenge the deity that the Aztecs worshipped above all others—Hummingbird on the Left.
Within the confusing and often contradictory jumble of gods, rituals and prayers lay a message that bothered Mixcatl more as she approached the age of twelve. It was that individuality meant nothing in the scheme of things and that the primary emotion was dread. Humanity was crushed beneath the weight of the gods and the stars, imprisoned by the signs and forced to give an ever-widening river of blood so that the threatened universe might totter precariously from one instant to the next.
While she accepted the Aztec faith in fearful obedience, part of her rebelled. Try as she would, she could not suppress the feelings. Perhaps it was the strangeness in her, the unnamed thing she sometimes felt circling within, that could not bear the picture of such a world. It made her want to beg Speaking Quail to say this was not reality, that the world in truth was not so desperate and fragile after all.
It also made her wonder what would happen if someone was brave or foolish enough to withhold the sacrifice, to refuse to bring the knife down upon the victim’s chest, and see then if the sun faltered or the world ended. To ask such a question was unthinkable, even of Speaking Quail. Such doubts were far too dangerous when the possibility of the world’s ending hung in the balance. She herself might not have the courage to make that challenge when the moment came.
And even if those doubts were right, speaking them now would destroy everything she had gained and ruin her chance to create a life as a glyph-painter.
So she kept those thoughts in a secluded place in her mind and kept quiet, but she couldn’t help wondering if anyone else shared them.
Mixcatl began to think that she would spend her life preparing empty pages for other artists to fill. She was almost startled when the day arrived when she and the other slave-apprentices were shepherded into a large room and given small pieces from blank books that had been judged unfit for any other use except practice.
Her brush was a twig with the ends chewed and her ink was watery, but Mixcatl eagerly set to the first exercise in glyph-drawing. She found it much too easy and finished long before the rest.
She soon discovered that the scribe’s skill demanded more than artistic ability. Each complex tiny figure had to be drawn to exacting standards according to certain rules. Figures of men, animals or gods were always shown facing left or right. A figure’s head was always a third of its height, even if that convention dis
torted true proportions. Variations or mistakes were not tolerated. Even practice paper was in short supply and not to be wasted. Students were admonished to look at a figure until they could draw it in their heads before trying to transfer the lines to paper.
Mixcatl found the task easier than did most other students, for she had the ability to keep images in her mind and draw from them, the way she had drawn Tezcatlipoca from memory. But she had to struggle to control her brush, so that the lines would not wander. Other students who were careless or who could not control their strokes were punished or dropped from the class. Mixcatl saw them later, making paper in the courtyard. They would either be sold or would spend all their lives devoted to tasks requiring less skill. Mixcatl vowed that she would not be among them and bent her head over her practice sheet.
In each figure, every tiny little detail was important, for the shape and decoration of face decoration, headdress, shield sandals or garments gave important information about the warrior, king or god being shown. Even colors were symbols and the artist had to be sure to get the hue and shade exact or readers would misinterpret the picture’s meaning.
Once a line was down, it could not be removed by erasing or smearing. Anyone who tried had the back of his hands pricked by agave thorns. Though Mixcatl did not like the punishment, she never thought it unusually cruel, for she had become accustomed to the infliction of wounds as chastisement and it was no worse that what students received at the calmecac.
Quickly she learned how to place figures on the page in relation to each other, how to proportion them properly and how to make the blue speech scrolls that symbolized words issuing from their mouths. She executed and memorized the simple glyphs for things like trees, mountains, and then more complex ones for city names and the titles of nobles or warriors.
The rainy season, then the hot season, came and went while Mixcatl spent her days crouched over her practice board or performing some task in the shaded courtyard.
As the complexity of the drawing assignments increased, the number of slaves in the class diminished as more found that they were not able to meet the exacting demands of the art. For those who continued, like Mixcatl, tasks became harder and punishments more severe for those who failed.
When the scribes in training were given their first blank books instead of practice sheets, it was both a time of joy and dread. At last Mixcatl had a surface worthy of her skill, a well-varnished smoothness that wouldn’t drag at her brush tip or pull her hand astray. Eagerly she applied herself, the paint flowing evenly from her brush, the lines controlled, the proportions proper. But even while she was buried in the act of creation, she could not help but hear another student moaning in fear because he had blotted or marred his work and the teacher would beat the offending hand with a thorn whip.
Mixcatl knew that scribes at the upper levels were punished severely, even killed, if they made a mistake on an important document. Though she resented the atmosphere of fear created by this severity, she accepted its necessity. If scribes did not take the utmost care in making the figures, or if they allowed variations to creep in, the books would soon become unreadable and thus useless. Dread of pain or even the loss of one’s life might be a cruel motivation, but it had worked. As complex as the figures were, they could be read by anyone who had been given the proper training in interpretation.
And perhaps she gave little thought to the severity of the punishment because she was convinced she would never receive it. Her eye was sharp, her hand steady, her brushstrokes sure. She could see an entire figure in her head and project it onto the paper so that her brush only had to trace over lines that seemed already drawn.
This gift put her far ahead of the others and soon the teacher accepted her skill, placing her in an advanced class of experienced scribes who were learning the finer points of the art. She was also given her first real assignment, a listing of tribute collected from a newly conquered area. Carefully she made the pictures of the items she was told to draw, such as mantles, blankets, strings of jade beads, shields, warrior costumes and tropical birds—all goods that the conquered town had been forced to yield.
Other assignments followed, each more difficult and longer than the last. Mixcatl worked eagerly, but carefully, completing each one without flaw. Soon she had made a strong reputation for herself as a gifted apprentice. The Master of Scribes declared that he was well pleased and moved her up in rank to become a scribe’s assistant and then a full-fledged glyph-painter with all rights and responsibilities of a trained artist. It was an honor, for at thirteen, she was one of the youngest ever admitted as a fully trained scribe.
Toward the beginning of her fourteenth year, she was brought in to work with some of the best glyph-painters on a series of books commissioned by the Speaker-King himself. They were to comprise a history of all the lands of the Aztec Empire, a project that the older scribes said would take the most careful and exacting work over the span of many years.
Mixcatl was sitting in a room on the top floor with the other scribes assigned to work on the document, painting by the light of a torch made of strips from twisted resinfilled pine. Outside, thunder rumbled and rain sluiced down on the city. She sat near the window, for she enjoyed the sound of the rain, although she was careful not to let any raindrops spatter onto her page.
Propped up nearby were several old yellowed texts that she was using as sources. One of the benefits of working as a scribe was the ability to interpret as well as copy. Often she put her brush aside to pore over the ancient glyphs.
One text showed the origin of Hummingbird on the Left. Speaking Quail had made sure she had memorized the legend. As she read the text, she remembered his words.
She touched the figure of Hummingbird’s mother, Coatlicue, She-of-the-Serpent-Skirt. Surrounding the goddess were tiny figures of children she had already borne, the many stellar gods called the Four Hundred of the South. Again Coatlicue was shown, now sweeping the steps of a temple and looking up as a fluffy ball of feathers containing the soul of a recently slain warrior descended from the sky. Coatlicue placed the ball of feathers in her bosom, unknowingly impregnating herself.
Mixcatl paused in her study, deciding that she would be wary of any little fluff balls that might happen to float her way. Although this only seemed to happen to goddesses; mortal women only bore children after lying with a man.
Coatlicue’s other offspring, finding her to be inexplicably with child, grew angry and swarmed upon her, demanding her death. At their approach, the child within her womb spoke out, telling his mother not to fear. From her swollen belly he leaped forth, already fully grown and armed with shield and snake-headed club, which turned into a thunderbolt to incinerate all who stood in his way. He turned on his siblings and drove them away, just as the rising sun chases away the night and dims the light of the stars.
Mixcatl frowned as she studied the figure of Hummingbird. She wasn’t particularly fond of him, but she had to reproduce him accurately for the new text. He was shown as a striding warrior with a blue and white striped face, lifting his snake-headed weapon to drive away his brothers and sisters. His helmet was in the form of a hummingbird, the long beak sticking out over his forehead to form a visor. He had the arched Aztec nose and a grim, implacable expression.
Carefully she painted his figure on the new page, then added in the rest of the glyphs containing the legend.
Across the room an older scribe sighed, stretched, rubbed his back and returned to his task. The work was going much more slowly than anticipated, for the history was very difficult and complex. Several books had already been rejected as imperfect and the artists demoted or punished. It was said that the Speaker-King was starting to grow impatient with the House of Scribes.
Mixcatl worked as fast and as well as she could, but the project crept on at an agonizingly slow pace. Different artists came and went, although she, thankfully, was left alone.
As she put the final touches on the glyphs of Hummingbird’s legen
d, the doorhanging was pulled aside and the Master of Scribes entered, followed by an old man with a bald pate ringed by curly white hair. He had a high bulging forehead and a scraggly yellow-gray beard.
When Mixcatl caught sight of the old man’s face, it reminded her of someone she had seen before. He had the same small flattened nose, the same type of high forehead, thinning curls and sparse beard as the kind elderly slave who had ridden with her aboard the market boat to Tenochtitlan.
Staring harder, she felt a sense of disappointment. No. This old man might share some features of the one who had taken pity on her that day, but he was not the same man. His throat was wattled like the neck skin of an iguana. His lips were fuller and bowed much like her own. His eyes were lighter in color, the gray-brown of fired clay.
He was close enough in appearance to the man in Mixcatl’s memory that she assumed he would be gentle and kind, the way the other had been.
The Master of Scribes motioned to get everybody’s attention, then presented the newcomer. “This is Nine-lizard Iguana Tongue. He has been given to us by the house of Tlacopan to aid us in completing the history for our Speaker-King. I ask you to make him welcome.”
Mixcatl watched as Nine-Lizard Iguana Tongue’s gaze traveled over the group, appraising them. As he looked her way, his eyes lingered and a little line appeared between his brows. Somehow that wasn’t the expression she had expected to see when he looked at her. Instead of being mild and kind, his gaze was sharp and critical.
She heard him ask the Master of Scribes about her and heard the expected answer. The old man grunted and shrugged his shoulders. Mixcatl felt her face warm. Was he worried about the prospect of working with a young woman? Did he fear her work would not be good enough? Well, he would soon think otherwise. The Master of Scribes had already judged her productions to be better than many of the more experienced artists.
