by Clare Bell
She felt herself being gently taken into someone’s lap. From the sweet, dusty stoneworker’s scent, she knew that it was Huetzin. His arms went around her, cradling her. From a dimness far away, she heard his voice and fought to stay close enough so that she could still make out his words.
“Is she asleep, Nine-Lizard?”
“Yes.” The old man’s tone was weary. “You can carry her back to her quarters.”
“Let me just hold her here for a while.” He paused and Mixcatl thought he had faded into silence, then he spoke again in a low voice. “When I saw her, I thought she was only a gifted child, but she has grown into my heart like a woman.”
“Huetzin,” began Nine-Lizard in his aged rasp.
“What are these strange fits that ail her? What is it that rips her art away from her? If there was a torment worse, I could not imagine it. Did you watch her? It seemed to me as though a part of her died each time, then was reborn only to die again.” Huetzin paused and though his voice wavered in Mixcatl’s ears, she still could make sense of his words. A new coldness came into them. “Old man, I feel that you know what this sickness is and you have known all along. Why have you withheld answers from her and from me?”
“I felt that she was not ready to understand or accept. To tell her would only frighten her and make it worse. As for you, young sculptor, your entry into this has come about much faster than I had anticipated. I feared and still fear that the truth will turn you from her.”
“Then you do not know me well enough, old man,” said Huetzin fiercely. “Tell me.”
“She looks asleep, but she may be listening,” began Nine-Lizard.
“All the better if she is. Whatever this affliction, it is wrong to keep the knowledge from her. Or from me and my father.”
“Your father already knows,” said Nine-lizard, and Mixcatl heard Huetzin draw a breath. “That is why she and I are here. The history that we are writing is not the real reason.”
There was another silence. Mixcatl could feel Huet-zin’s arms tense about her and she knew he was waiting.
“You are right,” said Nine-Lizard. “You deserve an explanation. So does she, but I would rather that she be awake enough to grapple with the fears it will raise.” There was a rustle of cloth as the old scribe got to his feet. Huetzin shifted his weight and Mixcatl felt herself being lifted.
“Can you manage her?”
Huetzin grunted with effort and surprise. “She is heavy! The last time I carried her to the palace, I thought it was my imagination.” Mixcatl could feel the youth struggling with her and wished she could shake off enough of the weariness and lassitude to walk. “But I have lugged stone blocks to my workshop. I can carry her. Lead the way, old scribe.”
Later that evening, the three sat together in the scribes’ guest quarters at Tezcotzinco. Mixcatl lay on a pallet, still feeling drained by the struggle she had gone through that afternoon. She had managed to eat after resting and now was awake enough to take part in the conversation. Huetzin sat on the pallet with her, holding her head in his lap. Gently he stroked her hair as Nine-lizard spoke. Beside him, on the floor, stood the greenstone statue of the kneeling jaguar man. Nine-Lizard had asked Huetzin to bring it from Wise Coyote’s library.
Mixcatl cast a cautious glance at the figurine and recalled how the sight of both it and its companion had so unnerved her. Perhaps she sensed somehow that it held a clue to what she was and why these strange episodes were coming down on her.
Nine-lizard picked up the figurine and cradled it between his two hands. The look in his eyes was an unreadable mixture of emotions as he looked at it. Suddenly Mixcatl knew that the statuette unsettled him as much as it did her, and not only because it held the explanation to the mystery of her peeling sickness.
Her lips moved almost soundlessly. “What is it?”
“An Olmec jaguar shaman. The image of a man casting off his human skin to free the jaguar beneath.” Nine-lizard paused. “You are a descendant of the Olmeca, Mixcatl, as am I. There is nothing of the Aztec in your face, which is why to many men, you are ugly.”
Huetzin slowly touched the statue as if it might spring to life. “My father showed me this in the library. I thought that it was just an image, a metaphor of the savagery inside men. I never thought to take it literally.”
“You saw its literalness when Mixcatl’s skin peeled at the sight of the deer.”
“Give me the statue,” said Mixcatl, a cold calm seeping through her. Wordlessly Huetzin gave it to her. She ran her fingers over the greenstone face, then touched her own. “Is this what I am?”
“Yes.”
“Why I get the peeling sickness and other things as well?”
The old scribe nodded.
Mixcatl felt fear strike her. She was different, as she had long suspected. Now that it had come into the open, she would be looked at with suspicion, cast aside, driven away. Yet at the same time, she felt a strange sort of relief. Now she had at least the beginning of an answer.
“The jaguar beneath,” she mused, feeling strangely distant. She turned her face to Nine-Lizard. “But I have never peeled off all my skin. When that happens will the…thing inside…come out?”
“In time, yes.”
Huetzin broke in, shaking his head angrily. “I can’t believe this. People do not become animals. Perhaps in myths or in tales of the gods, but those are only ways to tell certain truths. Yes, part of me can believe when a priest dons the skin of a beast that he has become the creature, but part of me knows that the body of a man lies beneath.”
“Perhaps I am the opposite,” said Mixcatl, feeling oddly calm. “A beast wearing the skin of a woman. It would explain so many things.” She lay quietly, thinking of how the deer smell excited her and no one else, how her skin loosened and peeled when she became excited, how the intensity of her art had diminished as the change came closer. A beast cares nothing about beauty, she thought, and felt cold.
“I still do not believe,” said Huetzin, stroking Mixcatl’s hair. “The eyes that look at me, the hand that holds the brush; they speak of a woman’s spirit, not a slit-eyed cat’s.”
“The beast is there,” said Nine-Lizard. “And it will emerge. Trust me. I know. And that is why Mixcatl must go back to the land of her birth and be among the people whose gift she carries.”
Again Mixcatl stared into the old scribe’s eyes and saw the remains of an ancient agony that might have once matched her own. She sensed that he did know what would happen to her. And not just from reading about it in a book of glyphs.
“Then if it is important that she go, take her,” said Huetzin. “I will miss her, but it is better if she can experience this with people who understand it. And surely she will come back to me?”
Mixcatl reached up to Huetzin’s arm. “Yes, I will come back,” she said softly, but her mind was in confusion. Suppose the jaguar within became free? If it had no care for art, would it care about Huetzin?
“I would take her at once, if your father were not standing in the way,” said Nine-Lizard, with a steady gaze at Huetzin.
The young sculptor shook his head in a puzzled manner. “This is what grieves and frightens me most about this. The change in my father. He has never before kept things from me. He has never let his desires overrule his wisdom and he has never hurt anyone willingly. But perhaps he has only misunderstood,” Huetzin said, his mood brightening. “If he knows that sending Mixcatl to these people will help her, surely he will not oppose that.” His manner grew more determined. “I will speak to him. I know he will listen.”
“I hope for her sake and yours that he will,” said Nine-lizard softly.
Wise Coyote sat in his chambers across from his son Huetzin and the slave-scribe Nine-Lizard. Out of courtesy he had given them both reed icpallis to sit on, but he also kept his turquoise crown on his head.
He saw that Huetzin noticed that he did not put the crown aside, as he often did when meeting with his sons. The young sculptor’s
face stiffened, yet he did not hesitate to speak.
Taking a deep breath he said,’ ‘My father, these words come hard because I have never had to say anything like this to you before.” Huetzin gulped and clenched his fists to still his trembling. “I have always admired your wisdom and it disappoints me to see that you have departed from it.”
Wise Coyote waited, thinking, this is not the first time, Huetzin, but you were too young to know the others.
“When you brought the girl Mixcatl here, why did you not tell me about the illness that causes her so much torment? And now, why do you not allow her to be sent to those people who can offer her help?”
“I did not tell you about her because I had no idea that you would become involved,” said Wise Coyote mildly. “You are always at your workshop; you have shown little interest in the company of women or the arts of courtship. Perhaps I should have foreseen that the gift of craftsmanship that you both share would have drawn you together.”
“It was not only that,” said Huetzin slowly. “When you see someone in pain, your heart goes out to them, father.”
Wise Coyote remembered how Huetzin had come to comfort him as he stood alone on the hill after his eldest son’s death.
“What is this thing that possesses her? Why does she start sniffing like a beast and scratching off her skin when she sees or smells my pet deer? Is it true, as Nine-Lizard says, that she will transform into a jaguar?”
Under the steady but guileless gaze of his son’s eyes. Wise Coyote had no course but to retreat. “You have seen her—during one of those times?”
“Twice,” said Nine-Lizard. “Lord king, I think it would be simpler if the young man were told the full story.”
Wise Coyote sent the old scribe a sharp glance, but Nine-lizard did not flinch or quail. The king sensed that he was being faced by two wills as strong as his own. He also felt a strange aching jealousy. He thought he was the only one who had gotten close to the strange young woman whom he had taken under his protection. He remembered how she had walked with him in the garden and shared his hopes and his quest for a gentle god that would be worthy of his devotion.
“Wait here,” he said abruptly. “I must go to the library.”
When he returned, he carried the second of the two statues, the Olmec carrying the snarling jaguar-baby. He put it down beside the kneeling jaguar man and said to Huetzin, “We spoke about these once before.”
“You said that they were from an ancient tradition that has gone.”
Wise Coyote smiled tiredly. “Not entirely, Huetzin. Look closely at the kneeling man. It was you yourself that said that his skin was peeling off, revealing the animal beneath.”
Wide-eyed, Huetzin stared at the statue, then at Wise Coyote’s face. “So you really believe it,” he said, and Wise Coyote saw him glance at Nine-Lizard in amazement.
“Huetzin, listen to me,” Wise Coyote said. “It is not an illness that Mixcatl has. It is her nature, struggling to surface. And it is a savage, dangerous, vengeful nature. I know, for I saw it emerge.”
Briefly he told Huetzin what he had seen when Mixcatl had been cornered and teased by the children in Tenochtitlan. He watched as the young man’s pupils grew wide with fear and uncertainty. “She was going to rip out the boy’s entrails, Huetzin. It was only luck that weariness overpowered her in time. As it was, the youth escaped, but he still bears deep scars on his thighs. And his memory.”
“No,” Huetzin whispered. “In my workshop, I could see her spirit. She is a gentle and gifted artist.”
“She is both, Huetzin,” said Nine-Lizard sadly. “It would be better if she were not graced with an artist’s soul, for it wars with that of the beast and makes the struggle even harder.”
“I have seen that struggle,” said Huetzin, then added defiantly, “and the artist won. You saw. Nine-lizard. When she concentrated on painting, she held the beast away. She does not need to give in to that side of her nature. She can fight it and I will help her.”
“Do you think she can suppress it indefinitely?” asked Wise Coyote harshly. “Huetzin, she is not of the same flesh as we. We may have a beast inside, but it only emerges through our words and acts. Never does it cast off our flesh and all humanity with it. Mixcatl is of a different breed. The cat within will rule her. She will turn on you.” He sighed. “Give your affection to another, my son. She is too dangerous for you.”
Softly, Huetzin asked, “Then why do you keep her, father?”
Wise Coyote sat and looked at his son’s face while the reasons poured through his mind like the rushing water of the Chaultapec aqueduct. In the beginning he had brought the girl to Tezcotzinco out of concern for her safety. There was also the hope that she, as a living link to the ancient Olmec tradition, might be able to help him find a path through the maze of false gods to true divinity. And buried deep in his heart was the hope that when this jaguar queen arose to her full power, he would sire upon her sons that infused the proud blood of Texcoco with the ancient power and glory of the mythical rulers. But the rational part of him said that it was a dangerous dream and he dare not speak it aloud to Huetzin or any other.
And the dream would be shattered if it was Huetzin to whom Mixcatl’s heart turned and not to him. Suddenly the anger and jealously flared up again, putting an edge on Wise Coyote’s voice, even though he tried to speak in tones of patience and reason.
“You say that Mixcatl can fight the beast inside her by using her art. Is it wise, my son, or even right, to aid her in denying her own nature? You, as a creator, know that most of all. One must be true to oneself. Until she knows and accepts what she is, her pain will not end. It will only be delayed and made worse in the end.”
“That is a strong argument for sending her to the people who know her and who will aid her,” Huetzin pointed out.
Wise Coyote shot another glance at Nine-Lizard. “I cannot do that. Not yet.”
“Why, father? If it is the wise thing to do…”
“The history must be completed. Ilhuicamina is already getting impatient.” Wise Coyote knew he was only stalling and he felt a stab of disgust at himself when he saw Huetzin’s eyes narrow.
“The history is not the real reason. You have another purpose for keeping her,” said Huetzin, his voice flat. He stared hard at Wise Coyote, and the king knew he was remembering those conversations in the library when Wise Coyote had shared his longing for an alternative to a bloody god and the hope that one might lie within the tradition of the Olmec statuettes.
“My reasons are mine and I will share them with you when I deem it proper.” Wise Coyote sat up and touched his hand to his coronet.
There was a sudden bitter laugh from Huetzin. “Father, it is not reason but obsession. You see her as some sort of demon or demigoddess who can lead you to what you seek. Whatever she is, she is not that.”
Wise Coyote had half risen from his icpalli. He made himself sit down again and folded his arms. “Mixcatl will no longer concern you. She will stay here at the palace and you will remain in your workshop. You are my son, but I will accept no interference from you. If you disobey, I will have you sent far away and the workshop dismantled. Do you understand?”
Huetzin paled. His mouth hung open for several instants, then slowly closed. “Father, this is not worthy of you,” he began in a choked whisper.
“You are not the one to judge. Obey me or depart. That is the choice I give you.”
Huetzin swallowed and his eyes grew hard. “I cannot bear to watch what you are doing. I will leave and take my tools with me.”
Wise Coyote felt his heart sinking. Of all his sons, he had been closest to Huetzin and now he was being forced to drive him away.
“May I ask one favor?” Huetzin’s voice startled Wise Coyote from his reverie. “May I see the girl before I go and explain to her?”
“Yes. I see no harm in that.”
Huetzin bowed his head, rose from the icpalli and left the room. Nine-Lizard, however, stayed.
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br /> “Your son is right,” the scribe said in a husky voice. “This action is not worthy of you.”
Wise Coyote looked across at Nine-Lizard and clenched his fists. “Nothing must stand in the way of Mixcatl developing her full powers. With her beside me, the Aztec will not dare to crush Texcoco. And if she becomes as powerful as you have said, the masses of Tenochtitlan will flock to her, deserting the temples of the blood gods. Is that unworthy of me?”
Nine-Lizard rose from the icpalli. “That judgment you can only make for yourself. And you will, in time.”
Gathering his robes about him, the old man walked from the room, leaving Wise Coyote alone.
16
THE DAY AFTER his disturbing meeting with Huetzin and Nine-lizard, Wise Coyote began a new building project. It was not to be a great public-works feat, such as the aqueduct to Tenochtitlan, nor a religious monument, such as the temple he had planned. This, he thought, as he put the final strokes to paper with a fine-tipped brush, was a project as unworthy of his skills as his refusal to listen to his son was unworthy of his better nature.
He summoned craftsmen and gave their leader his instructions. The construction was to be of the best quality, as stout and strong as possible. And it was to be built as rapidly as possible.
The project was a chamber, to be fitted into a comer of the palace near his own quarters. It was made of wood, of heavy planks butted and lashed together. The floor was made in the same way, and the ceiling, so that it was essentially a room-sized box. Inside was a low, wide shelf for a pallet and higher shelves and brackets so that lights could be placed inside.
He had it built in sections, then carried into the hallway inside the palace where workmen assembled it. Then he inspected it carefully, making sure that there was no weakness that would yield to a woman’s fists or a beast’s claws. Once he was satisfied that his creation would hold its intended occupant, he furnished the interior as richly and pleasantly as he could, putting tapestries on the walls and fine blankets on the low bed shelf. There were mats and a low table laid with ink and paint-pots for scribing or painting.
