by Clare Bell
Wondering how much she knew about her heritage, he asked, “Do you understand this ‘strangeness’?”
She looked away, and when she spoke again, her voice was strained. “No. The only thing I know is that when the peeling sickness happens, I start to feel…as if I am becoming something else…. There is a part of me inside that wants to creep on four feet, to bite and tear and then run away.”
There was a desperation in her eyes akin to the feeling that he often had when faced by the threats closing in about him. It made him want to touch her gently, draw her to his breast and comfort her with an embrace.
Why hasn’t Nine-Lizard told her more? he wondered. He must have a reason. Perhaps she already knows, deep down, what she is.
Mixcatl was speaking again, staring away over the flowers, her voice remote. “Keep your dagger close, lord king, and keep your men always about you when you are with me, in case I should be taken by the strangeness.”
Wise Coyote took her hand, holding it firmly when she tried to withdraw. “I do not fear the strangeness,” he said, but he was careful to keep his dagger hand free.
Her fingers stayed in his as they continued the walk.
“Huetzin tells me that you and Nine-Lizard have made good use of my library,” he said, again trying to break the uneasy quiet that had grown between them.
She turned her head as if she had been distracted by something and had to pull her attention back to him. At the mention of Huetzin, a fleeting smile crossed her lips. “He is nice,” she said hesitantly. “He looks very much like you.”
“He resembles me in face, but differs from me in temperament,” said Wise Coyote lightly.
“He spoke to me one day in the library,” she said and her words came easier as if she was feeling more comfortable. “One thing he said puzzled me. He said that he was trying to make an image of a god who has none. He said that it was to be a gift for you.”
Wise Coyote chuckled gently. “That is one example of how he differs from me. I only try to do what is nearly impossible. He tries to do what is completely impossible.”
“I think he will do it,” said Mixcatl stubbornly.
Wise Coyote gave her a sidelong glance. The sudden defense and the loyalty shown in those words suggested that this young woman understood more about his son than a casual encounter would suggest.
“Well, Huetzin has plenty of time yet. The temple that is to house the image has been delayed. I have another project to complete.”
“I have never heard of a god that has no image,” Mixcatl said. “Since you do not speak of him by name, does he lack that too?”
“You have not heard of Tloque Nahaque, the God of the Near and By, because he has been forgotten in Te-nochtitlan. Some religious scholars claim that he is an aspect of Smoking Mirror.”
He was surprised at the animation that lighted Mixcatl’s face at the mention of Smoking Mirror. It was the same expression he had seen when he had spoken of Huetzin.
Smiling, she said, “I know Smoking Mirror well. I made my first drawing of him while I was a child. To me he looked like a dancing jaguar wearing plumes and gold. I was disappointed when my teacher said that the image was supposed to represent a man clothed in a spotted pelt.” She sighed. “I never could bring myself to give up the idea that he really was a great cat, even though I know better.”
“Perhaps your first impression was not wrong/’ said Wise Coyote. “I have searched for the origins of the gods. Smoking Mirror may have arisen from an ancient rain god who was worshipped in the form of a jaguar.”
“Would you show me the texts?” Mixcatl asked eagerly. “I would so much like to see them for myself.”
Yes, for you are drawn to knowledge of your own kind, the king thought.
He promised her that he would share his sources as they continued their stroll between the lush foliage and exotic flowers of the garden.
Mixcatl spoke thoughtfully. “It is strange that the sacred jaguar has given birth to Smoking Mirror, who has in turn given birth to Tloque Nahaque. He is the one you call your gentle god, isn’t he?”
“Yes,” Wise Coyote answered, wondering if she had also learned that from Huetzin.
“When will you build his shrine?”
Remembering the bargain that had been struck with Ilhuicamina, he felt an upwelling of grief. “I doubt that I will ever be able to build it.”
Mixcatl turned to him, puzzled. “If you wish to raise a temple to your gentle god, why can you not do so?” Within the question he heard another, unspoken. If you are king, why can’t you do as you wish? Inwardly he felt a tolerant smile at her ignorance and simplicity as well as a regret that what she assumed was not so. And, unexpectedly, an anger rose at all those who saw him from without and assumed his life as a prince was easy and soft. Many times, he thought bitterly that he would rather be a farmer working in his fields beside a living son who was his legitimate heir, rather than a ruler stripped of his firstborn by weakness and misguided loyalty.
How could he explain this to Mixcatl? Why did he wish to? Would she understand that there were limits to what a head of state could do, especially when he stood in the shadow of one greater. But he did not want to speak to her of Ilhuicamina. Instead he gave another explanation, one that probably had its own truth.
To her he said,’ ‘A king must obey the wishes of those he rules, or he finds himself a despot, hated and soon overthrown. Even in my state of Texcoco, where men are encouraged to turn from war to scholarship, people would not accept a god that did not demand death.” He paused. “They would think me foolish and a fool is less acceptable than a tyrant.”
He saw by the way that Mixcatl looked at him that she heard the pain in his voice and perhaps understood his plight.
“I do not think you are foolish,” she said softly.
Her voice was calm, even. He heard and felt the sound of truth in it. Tell me about your dream of a gentle god, her eyes said, and somehow, not knowing why, he did.
When he finished, there was not loathing, pity or disgust in her expression. There was amazement, perhaps puzzlement, but beneath a sense of quiet joy that comes when something precious is shared. Wise Coyote felt a growing excitement and a hope that he had at last found a sympathetic spirit.
It made him want to gather her to his breast and hold her tightly, bathe her face with caresses and then combine desire with tenderness to make her his own. Yet he was still uncertain. There was too much at risk to rush ahead.
Deliberately he made his voice neutral. “I am startled that you can even begin to question your religion, much less share my vision of a gentle god.”
“Because I was raised in Tenochtitlan?” Her arched brows rose.
“Every child in your city has faith beaten into him through his ears or his backside. Even slaves. No one escapes it and few resist.” He found that his voice was getting rough as he remembered his time in the calmecac where his father had placed him for schooling. Two years of that had almost extinguished his own will and spirit. Thank the gods that his father had seen the harm it was doing and pulled him out to study with the priests of Quetzalcoatl.
Mixcatl listened quietly before answering. “While I was in the House of Scribes, Speaking Quail taught me that it was the gods who stand between the world and its ending. Hummingbird on the Left must be kept sated or the sun would be devoured. I believed because I had to, but there was a part of me that said this is not for you, this is not right, that there must be another way.” She closed her eyes and he saw the thick black lashes lying against the brown of her skin. “I was ashamed of my doubts. I tried to make them go away, but I could not.”
“The House of Scribes is close to the twin pyramids,” said Wise Coyote softly. “Could you see the sacrifices from your window?”
“Yes. I could smell them too. I could not bear it. I was sickened and ashamed of my sickness.” She faced him, her eyes shimmering. “It is not wrong to love the gods. I have found comfort in Quetzalcoatl and Smok
ing Mirror. Tlaloc I accepted, for he brings the rain. But I could not love Hummingbird on the Left. I have told no one of this but you.” She looked at him steadily, jaguar color flickering in her eyes, her voice strangely distant. “Perhaps speaking to you of this is wrong. If so, punish me.”
Wise Coyote felt a surge of joy. Could a woman who bore the soul of the jaguar be repelled by the excesses of the Aztec rites? Did she share with him the same wants and needs that made him turn away from tradition and seek a gentler side to the divine? If that was true, it was more than a miracle.
Wise Coyote put his hands to Mixcatl’s shoulders, feeling her flesh warm beneath the fabric of her blouse. “No, it is not wrong. The gods have their rightful place in things and it is well that we should love them, but Hummingbird has stepped out of his rightful place and must be put back.” He paused. “I need your help.”
“How?” The girl’s eyes were wide, her lips parted.
“I have plans, but I think it wise not to tell you yet. Just tell me this. I feel you believe as I do. Is it true?”
“Yes!” The word came out in a rush.
“And you will aid me.”
“But what can I do? I am a scribe, but still a slave.”
Wise Coyote squeezed her shoulders tighter. “You have gifts that will soon make themselves known. Use them to help me.”
“The only things I have are the peeling sickness Nine-lizard has told you about, and my painting,” Mixcatl replied, her brow knitting. “And even Huetzin does not understand the pictures I make, even though he gave me the tiles.”
“Huetzin?” Wise Coyote said, feeling his grip loosen on her shoulders. “I know you have met my son, but I did not think that you had become friends.”
“Yes. He invited me down to his workshop and showed me his sculptures. Then he suggested that I bring my paints and work while he made his figures.”
Wise Coyote felt a thread of uneasiness slip into the fabric of the new dream he was weaving about Mixcatl. Had Huetzin also been attracted to this girl, drawn by their shared gift of artistry?
Well, it would not matter. Anything that Huetzin had with her could not match the bonds of sympathy and purpose that had just been forged between him and Mixcatl.
Yet this girl was so different. Had he known what sort of uncanny spell she could cast, he would have sent Huetzin away. As much as he loved his son, he wanted nothing to interfere with the plans he had for Mixcatl. If she developed the powers that he suspected lay in her, she would stand by his side, not only as kindred spirit and companion, but as a jaguar queen whose true divinity would bring Tenochtitlan to its knees.
“I think we have spent enough time in the garden,” said Wise Coyote, wondering if any of his thoughts had been revealed in his face. He doubted so; long years in the schooling and practice of diplomacy had taught him much.
Together they left the garden paths and returned to the palace.
The day after Mixcatl’s walk with the king, Huetzin came to escort her on another afternoon visit to his workshop. Thinking of what had happened between her and Wise Coyote, she hesitated. The king wanted her for a companion, perhaps even a wife. He was a good and gentle man and could give her much. Yet she sensed that he would ask a great deal in return and a part of her felt a vague resentment that she had already become bound to him. Huetzin was fond of her just for herself.
Going with him would not do any harm. Anyway, she had already planned this visit.
Her decision made, she ran down the bluestone steps of Tezcotzinco, paints and brushes clutched against her. The sun spilled down its light from high overhead, washing the palace and garden in dazzling white and gold. On the garden path, Huetzin waited for her, his arms folded, his head cocked and a smile on his face.
“So, what did Nine-Lizard say about tile-painting?” he asked.
Mixcatl answered happily. “That when I am not painting the history, I may do as I like. You were right. He is not as severe as I feared.”
“Will you work on your tile again?”
“I will look at it,” said the girl, “but I will probably start a new one, since the one I gave you is finished, I think.”
Huetzin nodded agreement and they strolled together on the path. Mixcatl liked the feel of his body against hers. She slipped a hand into his and glanced at his face to see if he minded. The answering look in his eyes and the squeeze he gave her palm told her that he didn’t mind at all.
An early afternoon wind blew across the path, bringing smells of the garden. There was another scent among the flowers—a musky, animal odor, the same one that she had smelled when she had first arrived on the palace grounds. Before she knew it, the scent had drawn her off the path and onto the lawn.
“What is this smell in the air?” Mixcatl asked excitedly, turning to him. “Are there animals here? May I see them?”
“Only a few tame deer over in the knoll,” said Huetzin. He seemed to be amused and slightly puzzled by her eagerness. Taking her wrist, he urged her back to the path. “I thought you wanted to start painting again.”
“Yes, I do, but I want to see the deer first. Please, Huetzin.”
The young sculptor gave her an odd look. Mixcatl, caught up as she was in the entrancement of the scent, had to struggle to focus on his face. She realized, with a sharp flash of embarrassment, that she was using the impatient begging tones of a young child. Yet she could not help herself. She felt prickly and excited all over.
Huetzin put one hand on her shoulder and together they walked over a little rise. Below were five small deer, two bucks and three does. He plucked a tuft of new grass and gave a high trilling call. A buck raised his head. Mixcatl could see that he was a youngster, just showing his spikes.
Huetzin called again and held out the grass. The young spike buck tossed his head and began sidling toward them. With one hand Huetzin pushed Mixcatl down into the long grass. For an instant, she pushed back, suddenly angry that she could not stand by him as the deer approached.
Then she remembered a similar anger that had come when she caught this same smell and she remembered the thoughts she had then. She had wanted to break away from Nine-Lizard when he hurried her into the house. She had even wanted to struggle and strike out. She realized to her horror that she was having the same kind of feelings about Huetzin. They made no sense. Huetzin was her friend. Why was she feeling so irritable, so eager and impatient?
“Huetzin,” she said, trying to fight the scent that filled her nose, even her mouth, and was tugging away her self-control. “I should not see the deer. I should go and paint.”
She looked up, saw that he had moved away from her so that he could not hear. The deer was very close, extending its neck to nibble the fresh grass he held out. Its odor blew all around her, seizing her attention, wrapping her up in a hunger that would admit no other thoughts. Her mouth filled with saliva. Her skin prickled and itched. Impatiently she rubbed her wrists together, felt the skin loosen on both.
Huetzin was turning to her, beckoning, his mouth forming words, but they buzzed strangely in her ears. The deer was eating out of his hand. She could see the delicate black muzzle moving, smell the breath that blew on the youth’s hand. Her eyes lingered on the deer’s body; the slender legs, the strong haunches, the rounded vulnerable belly. The color in her vision faded to grayed-out tones of blue and yellow.
She crouched low in the grass, saliva starting to seep from the corners of her mouth. She worked her jaws. She was hungry, so hungry. The only thing that would fill her was the deer.
The skin was loose on her face, her arms, as if she were wearing a tunic and mask. The feeling was maddening and she wanted to scratch it off, but she knew the movement would alarm the deer.
Huetzin was looking at her, his face distorting into strange shapes, but she didn’t care about him or his face. It was the deer that made up her world now. The scent and sight and taste of it on her tongue. The warmth and blood-sweetness coming from the animal as warmth rises from a sun
-heated rock.
She found herself creeping forward on hands and feet, faster and faster, her gaze fixed on the spike buck. Its head jerked up in alarm. She rose on her hind feet as black, white and gray swallowed the colors of her vision. She launched herself, feeling skin split and tear away from her limbs, burst by the growing pressure of the powerful muscles swelling inside.
Past the man she shot, onto the deer. She tried to seize its throat with hands that had gown too clumsy to grasp and instead flung her arms around the beast’s neck. She opened her jaws for the throat.
She felt hands on her shoulder, dragging her off the deer as the animal struggled beneath her. A wild rage surged up inside her as the strong hands broke her grip and dragged her head away from the pulsing place at the deer’s throat. Wailing and squalling, she lashed out, but an arm went around her neck and a body was on top of her, rolling her over, grinding her nose in the dirt.
The shouts about her were just noise at first, then her bewildered brain began to hear words in them as the clay pressed into her face blocked the scents of the deer from reaching her nose.
“Hold her down, Huetzin!” came a hoarse shout, almost a croak. Then she realized that she was still hungry and that they were driving the prey beast away. With renewed anger she began struggling again.
She heard the thump of a rock hitting dirt as someone threw it at the deer and missed. Another thump, a bawl, and the sound of hooves striking ground and then fading away. The deer was going. The two men had driven it off. She couldn’t get it back. She was seized with a deep sense of loss and grief that sent tears spilling from her eyes and sobs through her body. Her deer. They had no right. She would kill them. Bat them.
Voices again. The sound of another rock, striking and splitting as it missed and hit a boulder.
“Enough, old man,” came a voice just above Mix-catl’s head. It belonged to the same hands that were holding her down. “I don’t want the buck stoned to death. It is bad enough that he will never trust me again.”
