by Clare Bell
“The Master of Scribes let you stay away?”
“He allows me certain privileges because of my skill. You have shown evidence of similar ability, so he will not throw you out.”
Mixcatl felt a little better, but she was curious how he had known what was the matter with her and what to bring.
“I had prepared the herbs for myself,” the old man said, but he refused to let Mixcatl return the bag. “No, I am not so sensitive to the smell as I used to be. Keep it.”
She sat beside him in silence for a while, feeling confused. He had shown a side of himself she had never seen before, a kind, caring grandfatherly side. Yet he had also revealed the same sort of distaste for the Aztec rituals that she had struggled so hard to overcome.
“Nine-lizard,” she said, solemnly, her chin on her knees. “I am puzzled by something.”
“Ask it, then.”
“If the sacrifices of the ceremonies are good and necessary, as Speaking Quail has taught me, how can anyone dislike them? Yet you do, and I do not think you are a bad man. My stomach does not like them either and it is not usually a bad stomach.”
“I think your stomach has more sense in it than most men’s heads,” answered Nine-lizard, with one of his rare sharp grins.
“But if the world will end without the giving of blood,” Mixcatl began, then faltered. She knew it was dangerous to bring her doubts into the open, even to someone who seemed to share them. And the fact that he did seem to share them made speaking with him even more dangerous than ever.
He seemed to sense her uneasiness, for he made a move as if to get up and leave the mat.
“Please do not go, Nine-Lizard,” Mixcatl said softly.
He sighed. “You are troubled, aren’t you? By all rights, I should not stay and speak to you of such things, but my conscience is forcing me.” He took a breath. “Seven-Flower Mixcatl, what Speaking Quail is teaching you is the prevalent belief, but that does not mean it is the only one.”
“I know that there are other gods besides Hummingbird on the Left,” Mixcatl said. “But they all demand blood.”
“Some do not. When you are handed crumbling manuscripts to copy, you will see references to older gods and older ways. Do not turn your back on these stories as many priests and scribes do now. Read and understand them and then you may see that the Aztec religion is not the only path open to you.”
“I have to learn what Speaking Quail teaches me or I can not become a scribe,” she answered.
“Learn the texts then, but do not let their words rule you or plunge your thoughts into gloom. You deserve better than that,” he added, with a peculiar intent look in his eyes. Then he gathered his robes together, saying that he had work to do in his chamber. Mixcatl might keep the bag of herbs and return it to him once the bothersome scent had been blown away by the winds sweeping down from the peaks about the city.
10
EARLY THE FOLLOWING morning. Wise Coyote prepared to leave his guest quarters at Ilhuicamina’s palace and return home across the lake. He was looking forward to walking in Tezcotzinco’s gardens and breathing the fresh wind from the hills. Though the event honoring Hummingbird was supposed to be a celebration, the spectacle of mass sacrifices seemed to have cast a heavy gloom over Tenochtitlan. Even Ilhuicamina seemed sobered by what he had done. Perhaps he would think twice about doing it again, Wise Coyote thought, as he directed servants to pack his feathered cloaks and gold ear and lip plugs.
He did not welcome the interruption when a servant lifted the door flap to tell him that he had a visitor. He had a good idea who it was. At Nine-Lizard’s suggestion, he had sent spies to watch the House of Scribes and had arranged so that the old scribe could send word to him via these agents.
Everyone cleared the room so that the king could speak alone with his spy, who had brought a message from Nine-Lizard. At first Wise Coyote was annoyed, for nothing momentous had happened. Mixcatl, the young apprentice that Nine-Lizard had spoken about, would be leaving the House of Scribes later that morning on an errand. If the king was to see the girl for himself without letting anyone know his interest, he should disguise himself and wait at the small side-entrance to the House.
After directing his servants to resume packing without him, he exchanged his royal finery for a simple maguey-fiber loincloth, a plain mantle and rope sandals. He always had these garments with him, for he frequently adopted disguises and mixed with the crowds. Doing so had enabled him to learn much more about what people expected and wanted of a king, helping him to rule wisely.
Smearing stain on himself to darken the bronze of his skin he removed his gold ear plugs and chose a wide-brimmed hat to shade his face. Wise Coyote made sure no servants saw him as he slipped out of his quarters in the palace and down to the plaza outside.
Pressing close to the dew-moistened side of the wall surrounding the complex that included the House of Scribes, Wise Coyote watched the small side-entrance through which the girl would probably come. From his position he could also cover the main gate, although it was used for ceremonial purposes. It was unlikely that a young slave-scribe would pass that way.
The sun was touching the top of the wall when Wise Coyote heard the sound of bare feet on flagstones. He drew back as someone came out of the side entrance.
The girl was young, but she had none of the delicacy or childish vulnerability that Wise Coyote had seen in other girl-children. She was taller than he expected, broader through the shoulders than the hips. Her arms, beneath the sleeves of her huipil blouse, had the length and power of a man’s, yet her limbs were smooth and well shaped. Her hands were wide and her fingers short and blunt.
Yet it was her face that captured and held his attention. At first he thought her ugly, for she was far from the Aztec standard of female beauty. Her forehead was high instead of slanted back, the bridge of her nose dished in instead of straight. The space between the base of her nose and her upper lip was swallowed up by the strongly bowed shape of her mouth. Her head was entirely the wrong shape, rectangular and blocky, like the head of the Olmec figure who was carrying the jaguar-baby in the composite greenstone statuette.
With a shock, Wise Coyote realized that her face indeed echoed that of the Olmec image. But how different her visage was from the half-feral, half-idiot blank-eyed gaze of the Olmec figurine. Although the proportions of her face were the same—short nose, full jaw, high forehead, squared flattened ears and arched brows—her features combined to form an impression of intelligence and an exotic uniqueness that unexpectedly became beauty.
Perhaps it was her eyes. Wise Coyote decided. Hers had the same narrowed slanting form as the statuette’s, but the figure’s eyes were shallow pits, dug in the greenstone, empty of anything except perhaps a coldness that chilled the heart. The girl’s eyes were a rich brown, with amber flecks that caught and danced in the sunlight as she turned her head.
Or perhaps her mouth. Her lips were full and as strongly bowed as the figurine’s, but they had none of the imperious petulance carved on the mouth of the statuette. Instead her own character had shaped them, so that their shape spoke of patience, determination and a sense of humor. At the same time, the swell of her lower lip resembled the curve in the outthrust petal of a flower, and Wise Coyote found himself wondering if it would have the same silken feel against his own lips.
The thought and the sudden reaction it produced startled Wise Coyote. No, this Mixcatl was yet a child, he told himself. He had come here to learn what clues she might give that would aid his search for a true power to stand against the bloody might of the Aztecs, not to indulge in lustful fantasies.
He had spent so much time in thought that the girl had gone though the entrance and was far down the stone walkway that led to the canals. Scolding himself under his breath for becoming distracted, he prepared to leave his hiding place in the shadow cast by the wall.
He halted at the sight of a group of boys who crept onto the path after the girl had turned a comer. He saw q
uickly that the children had set one of their number on watch and this sentinel now beckoned his compatriots to follow. They moved stealthily, like hunters after prey. Some carried sticks.
Wise Coyote frowned and stroked his chin. He had thought he was the only one intending to shadow the young apprentice. It surprised him to find that she was being trailed by others, even if they were just children.
What were the boys after, he wondered. Was this a game of simple childish persecution or an indication of something more sinister?
His first instinct was to intercede and disperse the band, but he knew that such action and resulting ruckus would only alert the girl to his presence. No, better let the boys continue their hunt, although he would try to get between them and their quarry.
When the boys had passed, Wise Coyote heard the soft slap of someone running barefoot. As he hid again, he saw a wiry long-limbed youth appear from a different direction. The boy was running as fast as he could, yet trying to stay quiet. His eyes, beneath a wild shock of hair, were angry and his jaw set. On his upper lip was an odd black patch. The water stains on his ragged loincloth and the dried mud on his legs told Wise Coyote that the boy was probably one of the waterfront people of the city.
The youth slowed for an instant, as if afraid of getting too close, then cautiously ran on.
Wise Coyote scowled, puzzled and annoyed. What was this canal boy up to? Was he on an errand of his own, or with the others, or running to aid the girl?
Silently he slipped from the concealment of the wall’s shadow and followed.
Morning in Tenochtitlan was dazzling and the sun sparked off the canals, turning the muddy depths gold. Mixcatl, walking back from the open-air market where she had finished her errand, wanted to stop on the canal bank and enjoy her surroundings.
She halted once, thinking she had lost the children who were following her. Perhaps at last she could stand at the canalside without being molested. Perhaps she could smell, see and experience the city with all the depth of her senses, and capture part of it as a picture in her mind. She doubted that she would ever paint that picture, for it was too different from the formalized figures used by the glyph-painters and record-keepers in the House of Scribes.
The sound of sandals against pavement, hoarse shouts and the clack of sticks jolted her from her reverie and sent her hurrying on, eyes tearing, teeth grinding with anger. The boys from the calmecac. It was a market holiday and they had escaped their teachers. What better sport on a beautiful sunny morning than to gather in packs like wolves and descend upon the enemy they hated most?
It had been years since she left the calmecac, but its students remembered the incident with the tile picture and the ensuing uproar. They had made a point of teasing or harassing her whenever they could.
Perhaps they were preparing for their role later in life, the girl thought.
She knew that Six-Wind still attended the calmecac. He came to see Mixcatl and often walked with her on errands to provide her some protection from his schoolmates. Today he was not here and she was fair prey for the other boys. Even though time had passed, the hatred was slow to die. It had been kept alive by certain priest-tutors in the school who had lost face when Mixcatl was given to the House of Scribes instead of being sacrificed.
She pulled her robe more tightly about her shoulders and walked faster. The matron in charge of the younger slave-scribes had sent her to buy chilies today and she had a string of them. Now all she had to do was reach the House of Scribes before the boys caught up with her. She thought about breaking into a run, for she knew her fleetness. No. That would only encourage them to chase her. And even if she could outdistance them, her pride rebelled at running away.
So she kept her step even though she trembled all over with fear and a growing rage that frightened her almost as much as did the boys themselves.
Then came the taunts.
Slave, slave, ugliest one beneath the sun
All you are fit for is emptying dung.
Mixcatl huddled beneath her cloak and increased her pace. A quick look back told her there were five tormentors, ranging in age from eight to fourteen. She was fourteen and strong for her age, but as a slave, she dare not strike out against them.
Slave, slave, you must obey this
Open your mouth to receive our…
Shuddering, Mixcatl covered her ears and walked on but the slap of sandals was all about her. Her tormentors capered around her like demons. She turned sharply from the canal, hoping to shake them off, but they stayed with her. A stone hit her back. A stick was thrust between her ankles, tripping her. She stumbled and walked on, holding tightly to the string of chilies.
Now she was in an area of rich houses, whose walls and courtyards formed a maze. She saw at once that she had made a mistake and tried to get back to the canal, but the boys blocked her at every turn, singing their chant and slapping their sticks against their hands.
And then, suddenly, she was trapped in a small courtyard. She looked over the boys’ heads, hoping to spot some passersby, but away from the canal the pavements were deserted.
Until now, fear and self-control had kept her mute. In a choked voice she shouted, “Go away! I must bring back these chilies.”
The boys laughed and the oldest one said, “That will wait. We have another task for you. Kneel down.”
Mixcatl hunched her shoulders, glaring at him. He looked like all the others, copper faces flushed, lips drawn back in glee. Their hands were white at the knuckles, tight about their sticks.
A sharp shout drew Mixcatl’s attention to another boy who ran into the courtyard. Latosl!
“Leave her alone!” Latosl’s black-marked lip curled. “Nobleman’s spawn! Filth from the dung jar of a calmecac!”
The boatboy rushed at the oldest of Mixcatl’s tormentors, arms flung wide, mouth snarling, hair flying. As he attacked, she tried to dodge between three others who were starting to encircle her. Hands jerked her back.
Wiry and strong, Latosl was a match for one boy, but not two. Mixcatl caught only glimpses of his battle as she struggled against her own captors. Her last glance caught him belly-down on the plaza with two boys astride him.
One bounced fiercely on Latosl’s rump while the other leaned forward, two hands pressing a heavy stick across the back of Latosl’s neck.
A blow struck the back of the girl’s legs, making her crumple forward onto her knees. The chilies slid from her fingers. Hands seized her hair, jerking her head back. Other hands pulled her arms up behind her. A sandal stepped on her leg behind the heel, grinding the top of her foot into the pavement.
The oldest boy came up to her, stood over her. He was so close that her chin brushed the fabric of his loincloth. He stared down at her, eyes slitted, nostrils flared, tongue caressing his lower lip.
“Open your mouth,” he said.
Mixcatl clenched her teeth. An odd rippling passed across her vision, distorting the boy’s face for an instant. An instant of panic followed the sweep of anger. Something was going to happen. Something terrible.
“Do not do this,” she begged, and sensed that she was pleading not only for herself but for their sakes as well. “Smoking Mirror will curse you.”
The youth struck her face. “Open, pisspot.”
Another boy kicked her in the ribs while a third jerked her head far back. Mixcatl clamped her jaws harder, then lifted her lips to bare her teeth. The ripples washed through her vision at the same rate as the waves of anger sweeping through her.
The oldest youth pushed the butt of his stick against the girl’s jaw. “Open or I will break your teeth.”
The ripples became faster, deeper, devouring the color in her vision. Fury grew in Mixcatl, leaping about inside her, seeking a place to go. She remembered how her rage had animated a jaguar pelt and how the claws had raked its buyer. But there was no pelt here; these enemies wore only cotton loincloths.
With no escape, the rage raced around inside her body, rushing forward
into her face, her eyes, her defiantly clamped jaws. Latosl’s choked yelling resounded in her ear. Her wrists began to bum and itch in the grasp of the youth behind her. The end of the stick tapped against her teeth, hit again, harder.
She twisted her wrists against her captor’s grip. The burning intensified. And then the skin on her arms seemed to break and release a slippery fluid that let her wrists turn in the hands of her captor.
From a place dim and far away behind the pulsing of her rage, she heard the boy who held her arms cry out in dismay, “Ai! The filth bleeds! Her skin is coming off!”
Now the burning and itching was in her mouth, in the very roots of her teeth and in the bones of her jaws. Her sight blurred as her face was wrenched by a pulling sensation. It was in her back teeth now, lifting them up, higher in the jaw, drawing them to a tongue-scraping sharpness.
She yanked her wrists free. As she drew her arms up, she felt her hands curl. Now panic added to her rage, for she did not know what was happening to her.
The savage triumph in the boy’s face above her crumpled into uncertainty, then fright. At the sight of his contorted features, an entirely new emotion seized her, a savage rejoicing at the smell and sight of human fear. As she grinned, she felt the points of her front teeth slide past her lower lip.
Above her was the youth, still frozen by terror and disbelief. She no longer saw his face. Her gaze narrowed to the pulsing patch of copper skin at his throat.
Curling her body in a way she had never been able to do before, she launched herself up at him, head turning, teeth seeking the throb of life at the throat, hands raking down with nails grown strangely long and curved, catching in cloth, tearing…
Her enemy fell away, shrieking. Sticks descended on Mixcatl, striking her head, her shoulders, her back. She lunged after the others, stumbling because her legs no longer worked the way they had.
The colors in her vision bleached to faded hues, dominated by blacks, whites and edges, making her sharply aware of every move going on around her. To one side the boat-boy sprawled, held down by the youths on top of him. Her sense of smell, already acute, sharpened until the odors flooding her nose threatened to wipe out thoughts of anything else. The itching and tingling sensation moved up her arms, making her scratch and tear her skin even as she lunged at her tormentors.
