by Clare Bell
“Both of you, move away from us now,” Nine-Lizard said, as anger and dread goaded Mixcatl into another struggle. “Hurry!” His voice sharpened. “I do not know how long I can hold her. And if any others come, hold them away.”
Two sets of sandals made several steps down the hallway.
“Mixcatl,” Nine-Lizard said, as she writhed against the strength in his wiry arms. “Stop fighting.”
Her mouth stretched wide as she tried to speak, but the transformation had gone too far.
“I am grateful for what you tried to do even if it was foolish,” Nine-Lizard whispered. His voice started to buzz in her ear and she lost some of the words. “Help me now, in a different way. Stop fighting. Let yourself grow calm.”
I should have killed those men. Then you could have escaped, she thought sullenly, but she obeyed, growing limp. An overwhelming weariness lay upon her like a great heavy blanket, pushing her down to the edge of consciousness.
She felt herself twitching something that wasn’t her limbs or her body. Had she really grown a complete tail? She wanted to raise her head and look, but she was much too tired. It was a shame. She had almost made the complete change, but she was too terribly sleepy to do much more than wonder if Nine-Lizard was cradling a jungle cat now draped across his lap. Then her thoughts grew fuzzy and faded out completely.
21
TO MIXCATL, WAKING was like a long slow dream. She didn’t know where she was, or even what she was. At times she thought she still had the body of a jungle cat; at other times she felt as if she were something in between. Toward the end of the dream, she opened and closed her hands and knew that she had fingers again.
The only thing that seemed to stay the same was Nine-Lizard. The old man’s scent lingered in the room, touched with the smell of glyph-painter’s colors. He would probably keep that odor for the rest of his life, Mixcatl thought as she lay in a half-awake doze on a pile of rough mats, covered by a tattered cloth. He had mixed so much paint that it had worn into his skin.
She felt his touch as he moved about her makeshift pallet. He tended her, soothed her, spoke to her. Often he seemed to be cleaning up hair or bits of skin that came off her. With a cloth dipped in a water bowl, he sponged the raw areas left by skin that had peeled away during the change from woman to beast.
It was the stinging and burning of her skin that finally ended the dreamlike state. She sat up abruptly, crying out and pushing away the old man’s hands. Then she stared at her companion and at the room, at last able to see without having a strange film across her vision. Looking down at herself, she realized that she had regained the shape of a woman.
“So you have returned to yourself at last,” said Nine-lizard.
Then the memory flooded back into her mind of her failed attempt at rescue. It had come so close to success. If she had slain the two men who stopped her, Nine-Lizard might be free.
But she had learned something from the attempt. Even in the shock of transformation, she had recognized Nine-Lizard. Perhaps that showed that she did not have the defect that blighted others of the Jaguar’s Children.
When she pointed this out, he only smiled sadly. “I do not know how far you were into the change. As for the fact that you recognized and did not harm me; it means little. I am a special case.
“Because I know you so well.” Mixcatl felt disappointed.
“Yes, it could be said that way. As well as…”
“My attack on Huetzin,” Mixcatl said, her voice flat. “Nothing can outweigh that.”
Nine-lizard only sighed. He did not seem inclined to say any more and she didn’t want to push him. She should have known better than to hope.
“Here are your clothes,” he said, offering a torn and stained bundle.
Mixcatl accepted the skirt, blouse and mantle. Not only were the garments soiled, but several of the hand-sewn seams had parted. She remembered how the transformation enlarged her flesh, causing not only her skin to give way but her garments as well.
“I managed to salvage them, but I could not repair the damage.”
She slipped the blouse over her head. There were several gaps, but it would do to preserve modesty. The skirt was a wraparound, but one of the ties had ripped off. She secured it as best she could. The mantle she gave to Nine-Lizard, who had little more than a loincloth.
Then she asked him how much time had passed.
He sat down on the pallet beside her, stroking the yellow-white curls of his beard. “It is hard to tell without seeing the sun. Two days, perhaps. Maybe three.”
She looked about the windowless cell. It was larger than the one where she had found Nine-Lizard. Instead of a door flap, it had a barrier made of planked wood lashed to a frame.
“The priests think we, or rather, you, are far too dangerous to rely on guards alone,” said Nine-Lizard dryly. “The barrier is a clumsy thing—several men are needed to shove it aside when anyone enters or leaves.”
Mixcatl got up. Her legs were a little shaky, but the shaking subsided after a few moments of standing. She crossed to the plank barrier and pushed. She didn’t expect to feel anything give and it didn’t.
Nine-Lizard said, “It is braced from outside and tied. A suitable cage for a beast.”
Sourly she kicked the bottom board with her bare toes. Instantly she regretted it. The toes were as tender as the rest of her new skin and had lost their calluses.
Wincing, she said, “Wise Coyote did a better job. His cage door was not as hard to open.” She went back to her pallet and eased down on it.
Nine-Lizard gave a noisy sigh. “Well, I am glad that you are yourself again and that your skin seems to be healing. I only regret that when the priests see that you no longer require me to tend you, they will separate us.”
Mixcatl paled. She scolded herself for getting up, then lay back down on the mat, trying to look as sick as she could. She still felt weak, so that playing malingerer was easy.
“I doubt you will fool our captors,” Nine-Lizard said. “You are no longer showing any physical changes.”
“What happened to…my pelt?” Mixcatl looked about the room, thinking that she had shed her jaguar exterior to return to human form in the same manner that she cast off her human skin to become a beast.
“You did not really have a full coat, just scattered patches of fur. Your beast skin shrank back down and became human skin; you did not need to cast it off. You shed your fur, your whiskers and even the dead part of your claws. The live portion became your fingernails. The priests were fascinated,” he added. “They kept pushing the barricade aside and peering in until I threatened to make you into a great cat again and tell you to scratch out their eyes.”
Mixcatl grimaced. She disliked the idea of anyone observing watching her in the midst of transformation, especially the cruel priests of Hummingbird.
“How soon will they separate us?” she asked.
“I imagine they will give you a little time for full recovery. Other than that, I do not know,” Nine-Lizard answered and then fell quiet.
As Nine-Lizard predicted, the priests of Hummingbird gave Mixcatl several additional days before moving her to a separate room down the passageway. The guards made Nine-Lizard escort her to the new quarters. As the old glyph-painter walked beside her, she fought to keep back tears. This was the last time she would see him until the day of the sacrifice. She spoke to him frantically all the way down the passage and flung her arms about him for a final embrace before the guards tore him away and shoved a barrier across the door.
Later she was fed; an earthenware dish with beans and tortillas was slid through the crack when the barrier was pulled slightly aside. They also gave her a jug of water. Despite the despair that choked her throat, she found that she was ravenously hungry from the ordeal of the change. She ate and then, when she placed the bowl back by the door to indicate that she wanted more food, the bowl was refilled. As she finished the second portion, she was relieved that she would not be left to starve.
That made sense. Hummingbird would want his victims in good condition.
She found some mats and arranged them into a pallet, then curled up and slept.
The following morning she was roused by the grinding sound of the barricade being pushed back. Four warriors entered the room, one holding a wooden slave yoke and the others some stout leather thongs. They all held spears with points leveled at her as she submitted to having the yoke placed about her neck. Thongs were tied to the yoke and to her wrists as well. She was backed up against the wall and tethered, more tightly than Nine-lizard had been. The guards left.
She shivered with fear and cold, wondering what they planned for her now and wishing she could be back with Nine-lizard. They had not stripped off her clothes for beating, torture or other bodily insult. Probably she was to be questioned and then, hopefully, left alone.
The guards returned, escorting a middle-aged man with a solemn but not unkind face. He reminded her of her teacher. Speaking Quail. As soon as she had made the comparison, she regretted noticing the similarity. It was Speaking Quail’s way of teaching that had helped her understand the Aztec religion and aided her to accept as much as she could of it. She remembered his voice speaking to her as a child, gentle, yet serious.
Nothing exists, nothing endures, without sacrifice.
She suddenly wished she could hate this priest.
“Have you come to condemn me as a demon?” she asked, making her voice hard.
“I do not see a demon before me today.” The priest smiled. “I have come to ask you why you attempted to escape the fate that was decreed for you.”
Mixcatl eyed him. “Why bother? You have me. You can just drag me to the altar.”
The priest’s expression was still pleasant. “Yes, but surely you are aware that gods are better nourished by blood given willingly. You are such a powerful sacrifice that your cooperation does make a large difference.” He paused, rubbing his palms together. “Certainly you will,” he went on, as if talking to himself. “Resistance is very rare.”
Despite her fear and anger, Mixcatl was curious.
“No one else has ever tried?”
“Very few and they were deranged. Most who are chosen welcome an opportunity to feed the sun.” The priest paused. “You appear to be quite lucid. In fact you speak more intelligently than I would have thought.”
“I am a glyph-painter. I was trained in the House of Scribes,” Mixcatl answered.
“And, as I understand it, you received religious instruction from a colleague of mine, Three-House Speaking Quail. Did he fail in his task?”
“He did not fail.”
“Then I find it difficult to believe that you deliberately rejected the duty that is the most important of all. Speaking Quail told you that our world only moves from one moment to the next because men give up their lives before the altar.”
“He did.”
“Yet you do not believe.”
“I…” Mixcatl faltered. She forced certainty back into her voice. “No. I do not believe that people have to die to keep the sun in the heavens. Your world may be such a fragile thing, priest, but mine is not.”
She expected harsh words or even blows for her reply, but her inquisitor only kept smiling, although a coldness glittered behind his eyes. “Your words are well chosen for defiance, young woman, but your hesitation and your voice cannot hide uncertainty.” He stroked his chin reflectively. “Tell me, if you had the power, would you starve the gods and risk the deaths of millions of innocent people for your heresy?”
Mixcatl swallowed. It had been easy enough to cast aside her beliefs while she was in Texcoco or while speaking with Nine-Lizard. Yet here, the religious indoctrination she had undergone in childhood and adolescence was harder to reject. Perhaps the truth was that she had not really examined her beliefs when Wise Coyote and Nine-Lizard challenged them. Instead she had shelved her religion for convenience’ sake. Yes, the blood of burning flesh revolted her, but did that mean the entire religious structure was wrong? If so, what could replace it? The world could not be completely empty, without gods or meanings.
Did she really have the conviction or the strength to rebel against the order and way of the world, as it had been taught to her?
Not alone, she thought. Not without Wise Coyote and Nine-Lizard.
“I see that you hesitate,” said the priest, his smile widening. “That is an excellent sign. In it lies your salvation. I will leave you now.”
As he left, Mixcatl cursed him inwardly. She would rather have been beaten.
When the priest had departed, the guards brought in a bowl of food and loosed her from the wall before backing out and sliding the barricade shut.
The interviews continued over the next few days. Each time the priest came, accompanied by guards, or sometimes by other members of the clergy who asked their own questions. The interrogation was not harsh, but unceasing and relentless. They hammered at the uncertainty that was the weak point in Mixcatl’s defense.
She grew weary, her head began to spin and her resistance began to erode. She began to wonder what she did believe. If she rejected Hummingbird on the Left, must Tlaloc go too? And what of Smoking Mirror, the dancing jaguar of her childhood, the image from which she had drawn needed comfort? Both asked for blood, although not in such rivers as Hummingbird demanded.
“You believe,” said one voice after another. “You do not wish to, but you believe.”
And behind all the voices was the soft but insistent tone of Speaking Quail, telling her again of his experience of the New Fire and his joy that the world had been reborn once again.
Nothing is born, nothing can endure, without sacrifice.
Did she have the right, the arrogance, to throw such wisdom away?
The jaguar, too, must kill to survive.
In the few intervals when the priests let her alone, she curled up on the pallet, trying to find refuge in sleep. More often she found exhaustion that ended in tears.
She was panicked by the knowledge that her denial was falling apart and that her captors could see it crumbling. The guards only tightened her thongs and the priests kept up their quiet but unrelenting pressure.
Then, they began to offer her hope. She would redeem a useless life. The sun was in danger. She could give her heart to avert the terrible doom. She was more powerful than other victims, her willing sacrifice would mean so much more. She was special. Surely she could not deny the god such nutritious sustenance.
And so it went, day after day, until she no longer knew what she believed and felt as lost as a child.
It was an easy path that the priests were laying before her and she would be a fool not to take it, she often thought to herself. When she had acted on her own, refusing to accept guidance, she had only caused disaster. Perhaps she was too headstrong, too impulsive. Perhaps she needed outside voices to tell her who she was, what she believed and how she must act.
Her attempt to free Nine-Lizard was an example. What she had done was worse than useless. She and Nine-Lizard would both die on Hummingbird’s altar. And there was another life at risk. The priests often gossiped among themselves, thinking they were beyond reach of her hearing, but that sense was keener than they assumed. She could hear conversations in the passageway, even through the heavy planks of the barricade. And what she heard cast her deeper into gloom.
Wise Coyote would soon arrive at Ilhuicamina’s court, in a vain attempt to trade the freedom of the two imprisoned scribes for more of his service as an architect and builder. He would construct whatever Ilhuicamina wanted; another dike across Lake Texcoco to keep the briny water of the south from mixing with the fresh water of the north, an extension of the aqueduct, more new temples…
She was sure that the Aztec would pretend to agree, perhaps even promising to abide by the agreement, before turning on his fellow king and giving him over to the priests. She could only hope that the Chichimec’s caution and cunning could keep him from getting too far into the trap
before it closed upon him.
Each day the knowledge ground more deeply into her, aiding the priests in their effort to wear her down. It made an aching hollow of remorse. Her jaguar powers were no gift, but instead a curse, blighting or endangering everyone about her.
She had barely been able to restrain herself from slaughtering the two men who had caught her in the passageway, and then only with Nine-Lizard’s aid. Those closest to her had paid dearly. Huetzin, Wise Coyote, Nine-Lizard—they had all suffered.
They would be the last, Mixcatl vowed, for she would resist the beast within. Never would she allow it to take over her body and swallow her soul. Even though her captors had forbidden her the paints she used to fend off the transformation, she held the change away. Under the weight of her despair, she buried the jaguar.
Many days later, Mixcatl stood in a chamber near the pyramid of Hummingbird and listened to the boom of the snakeskin drum echoing over the city.
Though at first Mixcatl had defied the priest’s doctrines, religion and the need for blood sacrifice was something ingrained more deeply in her than she wanted to admit. As the days of her imprisonment passed and her gloom deepened, she could not help but think that her life might be redeemed after all. Hummingbird might be the sanguine god of war, but he was also the aspect of the sun at its height, when its rays spilled down on the world, giving warmth and life.
If the sun was really in danger and her death would help to save it, perhaps her life would not be as purposeless as it now seemed. The question had gnawed at her, gradually breaking down her resistance, for it offered her one hope, tenuous as it might be. She became resigned to death, hoping the offering of her heart could preserve the sun.
Now she spread her hands on the wooden barrier that had been dragged across the entrance and braced to imprison her. Her gaze lingered on her hands, pressed against the heavy planks. Her hands were wide and powerful, her fingers stumpy almost to the point of deformity. No one, just looking at her hands, could see the skill that had produced many pages of elegant glyphs and had started to explore beyond the bounds of traditional painting.
