by Clare Bell
Yet something had compelled him to bargain for the lives of the two painters, especially for Mixcatl’s. She was the key to his search for a true god worthy of human devotion. She had to be, or else he would stand alone in the darkness, facing the vicious mockery of godhood raised by a man who had gone insane from his own fears. If there really was no hope. Wise Coyote thought that he too might go mad.
Impatiently he swept the map aside and got out the texts he had brought with him from Tezcotzinco. The words of the ancient Toltec scholars could not lie. The Aztecs might have burned their old books and rewritten their history to glorify their people, but these records, preserved intact from the founding of Texcoco, must hold the truth.
Eagerly he ran one forefinger along the elaborate lines of glyphs, searching again for a passage he had noted once before. Trying to judge the veracity of the taleteller’s stories about the jaguar kings, he had looked for the oldest texts he could find, searching for fragments of information.
There were many such pieces, each tiny, but adding up into a coherent whole. Here for instance. His finger halted as he read. This text claimed that the art of writing glyphs had not originated here in the Valley of Mexico, but had been brought from a people on the eastern coast. The art had already grown highly sophisticated, indicating that it had been developed in a culture that reached its height long before the Aztec state arose.
He unbound another sacred book and searched it. Here, in the myth of the creation story, lay more evidence. Of the four suns that had preceded the present age, the first had been the Jaguar Sun. Tezcatlipoca, shown in the text in the form of a dancing jaguar, had ruled a world of giants. The age had ended when a swarm of voracious jaguars consumed that world and its inhabitants.
Even if the text was not literally true, it seemed to speak of an age even older than the Toltec era that Wise Coyote had learned to revere. Somewhere deep in the past, there had been a first blooming of civilization under the rule of the jaguar kings. Then somehow it had fallen apart, its glories never again to be attained.
In other records. Wise Coyote found many other scattered hints to support the idea. He found more references to Tepeyolotli, Heart-of-the-Mountain, the jaguar aspect of Tezcatlipoca. A series of faces taken from ancient stone carvings seemed to depict the origin of the rain god Tlaloc from a primeval divine jaguar. And there was more.
“Everything points back to the Magicians,” Wise Coyote muttered to himself, wiping the sweat from his face before it could drip onto the stiff yellowing pages. “Everything.”
In a daze, he sat staring at the swirling glyphs in the text, no longer seeing them. Instead the distant world of the lost jungle cities seemed to come to life in his mind, a time when gods took the shape of the great cats and descended to earth. They took the shape of men and women, as mighty as they were wise. They gave gifts; the knowledge of turning streams to irrigate crops, the art of writing, the calendar, the knowledge of numbers and calculation. Perhaps they had not even wished to be worshipped, but could not turn aside the adulation and the demand that they be made kings.
What tragedy had brought down those first ones? Had it been their jaguar nature and their need to revert to their true shape? How had they been worshipped? Surely such beings would have no need to see human blood poured down their altars; flowers, food and perhaps the beauty of artisanship would have served them. Had it been the blood of the hunt on jaguar claws and teeth that inspired frenzied worshippers or scheming priests to give more of the same? Or was it a need inherent in man to kill his own kind in the name of divinity?
Perhaps the first stream of crimson to spill on those carved altars had spelled the end of that age. A betrayal came in the form of an offering and began a tradition of slaughter that drove away those that it was intended to please and destroyed nearly all that they had built.
Wise Coyote realized that this vision was a fantasy built in part of his own dreams and desires, but at its core, he sensed truth. A beast might shed blood, in feeding or defense, but only men would slay throngs of their own kind and pile the corpses to steam and rot in the name of reverence. Did the jaguar kings flee their cities, horrified at what they had unleashed? Or did they, too, succumb to the bloodlust?
Did it really matter how it had happened? The cities had long since crumbled and their inhabitants become moldy dust. The Magicians had all gone. He would never know the answer, for it lay in the nature of the vanished jaguar kings.
No. The king woke from his vision, blinking. If the girl Mixcatl proved to be a true descendant of those people, her development would tell him if the jaguar heritage inflamed or muted human savagery.
He gathered up the fan-folded texts, bound them and put them aside. Then he pulled the city map before him, wishing that he could put aside this hateful project until he could go to Tezcotzinco. The quarantine period for the two scribes was over, but this duty would keep him away until he had arranged to have the temple site cleared and all occupants of the demolished structures compensated for their loss. And Ilhuicamina would become impatient at any delay.
Wearily Wise Coyote picked up a brush and began to mark off buildings to be removed from the temple site.
The days dragged by at Texcoco. Wise Coyote chafed at a task he hated. He longed to be away from the heat and dust of the capital city and return to the hills of Tezcotzinco. At last his part in the siting, negotiations and financial arrangement for Hummingbird’s temple was done. The rest he could leave to lesser officials. He dictated a document detailing his progress and had it sent to Tenochtitlan. Then he ordered his servants to pack in preparation for a well-deserved retreat to Tezcotzinco.
He had no illusions that he was going to the estate for relaxation, however. During the journey by litter from the capital, he thought about Mixcatl and weighed different approaches to dealing with her. He spoke of this to no one, for it would seem absurd that a king should be so concerned over a glyph-painting slave, and a borrowed one at that.
He thought first of meeting her privately in the estate’s gardens. The idea tempted him, for the introduction would be less stiff and formal if he could speak to her while strolling about on flowered paths. Reluctantly he put it aside. Perhaps the garden would do for a later encounter, but that setting was too risky for the first.
It would be foolish to assume that the skin-peeling seizure that struck the girl in Tenochtitlan would not happen here. In her beast frenzy, she would have no respect for royalty. She might attack him as savagely as she had the youths who had tormented her. Wise Coyote intended no such provocation, but who knew what might upset or enrage one whom he yet knew so little about?
It would be better to meet the two scribes together, perhaps with the pretext of reviewing the commissioned history. The old man Nine-Lizard might be a bit of a mystery himself, but so far he had proved to be a loyal and useful ally. He could ease the introduction, and if the girl began to transform, he would know how to manage her. Wise Coyote could also have some men positioned discretely outside the chamber so that he could summon assistance if needed.
He arrived in the early evening, settled himself and his entourage and sent a messenger to notify Huetzin of his arrival. He had said that Huetzin need not come for a few days, knowing that the young sculptor was probably in his workshop, ankle-deep in stonedust and chips.
After the evening meal. Wise Coyote had word sent to the two scribes that he wished to visit them in their chambers and examine the document they were preparing. Dressing himself in the simple, comfortable yet regal clothing he usually wore at Tezcotzinco, he straightened his turquoise coronet and ordered a lightly armed escort to accompany him.
Leaving all but two of the men outside, he raised the door flap of the scribes’ quarters and entered. A fire burned on the hearth and torches made from twisted pine bark flamed in niches in the wall. He saw at a glance that everything was ready—the completed books of the history were spread for his inspection on a low table and an icpalli laid with cushions ha
d been set out for him.
Motioning the two guardsmen to stand at each side of the doorway, Wise Coyote took his place at the table. The two scribes knelt, touched the floor with their foreheads and then stood quietly by. The king had not intended to devote most of his attention to the document, but his scholar’s eye was soon captured by the clarity and beauty of the glyphwork. He noted, with mixed pleasure and alarm, how fast the work had gone.
It was well that the two scribes worked so efficiently, but the completion of the document meant that Nine-Lizard and Mixcatl would have to be delivered back to Ilhuicamina. For the girl, the return would mean death, and he was sure she knew that. He wondered if she had tried to stall or slow the work.
He read one section and glanced at several others. “The quality of this manuscript is excellent, considering how fast you both have worked. You have also blended your styles so well that I cannot say who did most of it.”
“Thank you tlatoani,” answered Nine-Lizard, dipping his head in acknowledgment. “Seven-Flower Mixcatl and I shared the task.”
There was no hint of untruth in the old man’s voice or face, nor any indication that he was dissatisfied with Mixcatl’s contribution. That the girl evidently had made no attempt to delay the work spoke in her favor.
“Come,” said Wise Coyote kindly, beckoning her forward and rising from his icpalli, “let me meet the one who has been so diligent on my behalf.”
Mixcatl came slowly, but not timidly, the torchlight flickering in her eyes as she studied him. Her face was as he remembered it from seeing her in Tenochtitlan, with its full bowed lips, short nose and full jaw.
“I am grateful that you have offered me refuge at your court, tlatoani,” she answered.
Her plain huipil blouse revealed the shape of her young breasts beneath. Through the rough-woven fabric of her skirt he could see the outlines of her powerful thighs, the curve of her rump, the flowing lines of hips that narrowed to a well-muscled waist.
Wise Coyote could see her heritage in the controlled grace of her walk, the way she held her head and body. She moved with the unconscious suppleness of a great cat. For an instant he could almost see the lines of the divine jungle beast that he hoped and feared lay within her.
As Mixcatl approached him, he noted her height. Most women barely reached his chin. She had cast her gaze down as was proper, but she would only have to lift her head and tilt her chin slightly back to look him full in the face.
His hand twitched at a sudden impulse to place his fingers alongside her jaw, to bring those soft full lips to his…Instead he closed his fingers and took his seat once more, indicating that the two scribes should sit nearby.
He became aware of Mixcatl’s scent as she knelt down beside him. It was warm, animal, with a humid sweetness like the air of the deep jungle where he had gone to hunt as a young man. Yet her hair was damp and her skin fresh, telling him that she had just bathed.
Yes, he was definitely spoiled in the matter of women, for it was hard to restrain the urge to send Nine-Lizard and the two door guards away and take Mixcatl into his private quarters. But now was not the time to indulge himself, especially under the sharp gaze of Nine-Lizard. He wondered if the old man had already sensed his reaction to the girl. Would Nine-Lizard welcome it, resent it or try to use it?
He swallowed. Gods, he felt like a schoolboy on his first visit to the House of Song.
“Have you had any difficulties in finding sources?” he asked. He expected Nine-Lizard to answer, but it was Mixcatl who spoke.
“Actually, we now have the opposite problem, now that you have so graciously allowed us to use your library,” she said. “There are many records and not all agree. I am not sure what to include or what to leave out.”
Wise Coyote clasped his hands on the low table. “Where do you find most of the differences?”
“The references we found claim that the Aztecs worshipped other gods before Hummingbird on the Left. The records we brought with us from the House of Scribes claim that Hummingbird has always been supreme.”
Wise Coyote watched Mixcatl’s face as she puzzled over the disparity between the records at Texcoco and the ones brought from Tenochtitlan. He wondered if she thought that his documents were inaccurate or even the result of heresy. She might be of foreign origin, but she had been raised to believe the Aztec religion.
“Have you any reason to believe one source rather than the other?” he asked softly.
She gave him a sharp look, as if she suspected that he might be questioning her faith.
“The history as related in your records disagrees with what I learned from my teacher. Speaking Quail. Yet these texts”—she paused, laying her hands on the books taken from Tezcotzinco’s library—“seem more…authentic. I see different styles, different interpretations, as if they were written by many scholars throughout many New Fires.” She paused. “I know this may sound strange to you, tlatoani, but I have a very good sense of smell and I have handled many old books. The mixture of odors in the manuscripts from your shelves tells me they are genuinely ancient, and authored by many hands, as the text claims.”
“And the ones from the House of Scribes are not?” Wise Coyote asked, growing more intrigued.
Mixcatl shook her head, frowning at the pile of cord-bound books at the end of the low table. “No. Those records are supposed to predate the reign of Itzcoatl, Obsidian Serpent, but they are too new. They do not smell right and the styles are too uniform, as if a small number of scribes produced them over a short interval.”
Wise Coyote glanced at Nine-Lizard, who indicated his agreement with Mixcatl’s words. Carefully he said, “Perhaps it was done in order to make Hummingbird on the Left appear to occupy a greater place in history than he deserved?”
There was a sharp intake of breath from the girl and her eyes went wide. Wise Coyote wondered if he had pushed her too far too fast. Yet the look in her eyes was not anger or indignation, but wonder touched with a sense of…relief? Perhaps she was not as devoted to the bloody god of her adoptive land as he feared.
The king leaned back in his icpalli. “Your observation supports a similar discovery of mine. I came across a text that claimed that Obsidian Serpent had older books burned and rewritten to glorify Hummingbird and his worshippers. Scholars to whom I showed it claimed that it was a lie, written by a disgruntled scribe who had been exiled from Itzcoatl’s court. Needless to say, I have not shown it to anyone since.”
Mixcatl looked taken aback. “The books that the
House of Scribes has taken great care to preserve and recopy—they cannot be false!” she said indignantly.
“Seven-Flower, remember whose company we are now in,” said Nine-Lizard mildly.
Mixcatl swallowed, gave an apologetic dip of the head. “I beg your forgiveness, tlatoani.”
“It is given,” Wise Coyote answered, and added, “I too would be angered if I found that much of my life’s work was devoted to reproducing documents whose truthfulness I later came to doubt.”
The girl sat with her eyes shut. “I do not wish to believe what you say, tlatoani, but I cannot turn aside the evidence of my own senses either. I have wondered if those texts…were really what they seemed, but I thought it was my own inability to accept what they said. I should have spoken up sooner and told the Master of Scribes.”
“And you would have died for it,” said Nine-lizard sharply. “You are not the only one to suspect that those records were forged. I knew too, but I kept quiet.”
Mixcatl looked at him, astonished. “Why? If those books are false, all that effort has been wasted to keep alive a lie!”
“The effort was not wasted,” said Wise Coyote, with a grim smile. “Altering the story must have served Itzcoatl well, and all those after him, including IIhuicamina.”
“But now, if we have the real story…” Mixcatl faltered.
Wise Coyote felt a surge of respect and affection toward the girl. If she valued truth more than religious belief,
she had the makings of a true scholar. He regretted what he had to say next.
“It will be recorded, but not in any document intended for Ilhuicamina. I dare not inflame his anger toward me, or I will end up doing Hummingbird a greater favor than just building temples for him.” Wise Coyote caught himself, for passion had made him say more than he intended. “Listen,” he said to the two scribes in a low voice. “I am enlarging your task to include the preparation of two versions of the history. One will be given to Ilhuicamina; the other will stay here at Texcoco with me. Perhaps someday, when the Aztec state falls of its own weight, the second document can carry the truth to those who live after. Do you agree?”
“You do not need our approval,” said Mixcatl, puzzled. “As king, you command us—we were brought here to serve you.”
“I can command you, but in truth, I would prefer willing partners in this task.”
“Preparation of a second document would allow us to stay longer at Tezcotzinco,” added Nine-Lizard.
“That is an additional benefit.”
Wise Coyote looked at Mixcatl, who was staring down at her hands, laid flat upon the tabletop. She looked a bit lost and he couldn’t blame her, for it was difficult to have the foundation of your religion yanked out from under you. Yet she did not seem as aggrieved as she might over the insult done to the god she had been brought up to worship.
“Seven-Flower,” he said, “if you find this painful, please accept my sympathy.”
She looked up suddenly and he found himself staring deep into her eyes as she replied, “It is not so much painful as confusing. I…I need to think. And I would like to see the other document you referred to, the one by the scribe who was expelled from Itzcoatl’s court.”
To decide for yourself if it is true or not, thought Wise Coyote. Well, I will not be insulted if you do not accept it on my word alone.
