But the first day of the festival was different. It was a holy time and the priests who taught him were engaged with other duties so he had no school. And I, our father complaining of a headache, was released from my work. Mayatl was occupied with the many tasks of the household. So Mitotiqui and I went together to the temple precinct to watch the celebrations.
Our mood was muted at first; we hardly knew how to speak to one another. We walked the wide avenues, and the distance between us was tangible and painfully awkward. But as we continued the crowds became thicker, until they were so great that we were pressed shoulder to shoulder. This enforced contact began to dissolve our reticence.
Like all gods, Tezcatlipoca has two faces: one is perfect and beautiful; the other is Titlacuan the destroyer, a wizened old man full of malice. This duality was represented throughout the festival. As Mitotiqui and I approached the square, a shrunken, aged man, whose curled toenails clacked on the stones like claws, leapt in our path and waved his stick in our faces. By his feet I knew him to be the man from the marketplace – he who had cast down my figurine in scorn. His eyes blazed as the god possessed him. Stepping forward to shield me, Mitotiqui took the blows Titlacuan rained down. They thudded hard upon his chest, while he who played the god shrieked aloud, “Do not protect her! She brings disaster.”
It was his usual cry. He moved on, poking his stick rudely beneath the skirts of women, and shouting insults to their husbands. But it chilled me; his words seemed meant for my ears alone. Seeing my reaction, Mitotiqui placed an arm about my shoulders and pulled me to him.
“Come, sister,” he said. “The bird dance begins.”
As children, we had always thought this the most exciting aspect of the festival.
A high pole had been erected in the precinct and four men, dressed in the costumes of birds with intricate weavings of gold and green feathers transforming their arms into wings, climbed it. When they reached the platform at the top they tied ropes around their waists. A fifth man was perched perilously at the centre, a drum gripped between his knees which he began to beat.
Once secured, with no hesitation the first of the four dived off, head first, hurtling towards the ground. I knew he was safely secured, knew he would not dash himself to pieces; yet I, along with the rest of the onlookers, could not help but gasp as he launched himself into the air. He scarce brushed the stone before springing back up. Around the pole he bobbed and spun, wheeling in a great arc high above our heads thirteen times – a sacred number, for it is as many as the cycle of years, and the layers of the heavens.
The second and third bird dancers followed the first almost at once. But the fourth was slow to dive, as though afraid. And when the jeers of the crowd forced him off, he found he had misjudged the length of his rope and his head hit stone. We did not hear the crack of bone, for the watching people roared, some with sympathy, some with derision. His flight was erratic, inelegant, of no tribute to the gods. When it ended he was led, almost insensible, away.
“I fear for him,” murmured my brother in my ear.
“I too.”
We both knew that an error in any dance could prove fatal to the perpetrator.
Next came the nobles of the city, hundreds of men wearing gorgeous robes of rippling feathers, gleaming with gold ornaments. Drums sounded, and the music of pipes and flutes rang throughout the square. The noblemen began the serpent dance, rising in waves in tribute to Tezcatlipoca. The assembled crowd clapped and whooped, giving their encouragement and support to those who wound, with wild ecstasy, in spiralling circles around the drummers. Attendants with pine cudgels stood ready to press back any man who weakened and tried to leave the dance. The steps must be performed correctly until the very end; any deviation from the pattern was an offence. This dance was done not for idle pleasure or amusement; this was an act of worship that demanded the total dedication of the participant’s body, mind and soul.
When it was over Mitotiqui grasped my hand. I turned to him, and suddenly we were children again – giggling infants who had escaped the clutches of our nurse. We abandoned the festivities and fled, winding between streets and alleyways, heading for the chinampa fields.
So absorbed were we in our reckless flight that we almost ran headlong into the procession. Only when the priests nearly stepped upon us did we realize our danger. We swiftly stood aside, flattening ourselves against a wall, heads bowed low in respect, wiping all traces of amusement from our faces.
It was the god. The perfect youth was carried upon a litter, garlanded and magnificently clothed. I knelt as he passed, as was the custom; but as I did so, some impulse spurred me to glance at him.
For a moment, I was blinded by beauty – stunned by the radiance of his face. Glory scalded the backs of my eyes. This was no mortal boy. He was transformed, possessed by the god, lit from within by his power. The youth he had been was burnt away, and what remained of his body was a gilded shell: unreal, insubstantial, a dream. And soon the door would open to a more lasting truth – the eternal reality. I closed my eyes to shut out the brightness of his divinity, pressing my palms hard against the lids.
The procession of priests and handmaidens to the god moved on, and Mitotiqui and I were left alone once more. I could breathe again, and did so, inhaling in fevered gulps. Our rash act had brought us close to incurring the wrath of the priests and it would be death to do so.
My brother did not notice my distress.
“Look,” he said, his voice quivering with excitement as he held out his open palm for inspection. “See what the god has left us.”
It was not the food of commoners; not a thing that could be freely purchased in the market square. But I had often seen girls carrying baskets towards the temples; I knew at once what they were.
Mushrooms. Five of them. The sacred diet of priests and gods. They had rolled from the litter of the perfect youth and been found by my own perfect brother. He pressed two into my hand.
“These are for you. I will have three,” he decided.
“Because you are a man?” I asked, my temper rising in irritation.
“No, dear sister, because I am bigger. I need more food. You know my appetite has always been greater than yours.” So saying he crammed the mushrooms into his mouth and chewed.
How could I do anything but copy him? He was my beloved brother, and for too long I had ached with his absence. Where he led, I would follow.
I started to eat.
For some time we simply stood and stared at each other, feeling a little stupid. I had expected the effect to be instantaneous, and it was not.
But then – like a rising mist – the mushrooms began their work.
I cannot describe all that happened next, because I do not recall it. I know that I had a sensation of floating above the streets and over the roofs. I yearned to soar high into the sky, to see at last what lay beyond the mountains. And yet I was prevented by a great weight that tethered me to the ground. Looking down, I recognized this as my own body, which was slumped beside Mitotiqui in the street. From above I watched as he pulled me to my feet and, with an arm about my waist, walked with me back towards the temple precinct. His steps were uneven, his gait strange and stumbling, as though he too would soon collapse. Drugged as I was, I felt it unwise to be amongst crowds where our condition would be observed. I wanted to tell him to go in a different direction, but in my spirit-like state I had lost the power of speech.
A hazy blur of dancers whirled about the square, and the drums grew louder and louder. I saw Mitotiqui fall, insensible, at the steps of the temple, my empty body lying discarded beside him. I was caught up, spinning out of control, insubstantial as a breeze, blowing hither and thither amongst the whirling dancers until suddenly everything ceased.
The last thing I saw clearly was the face of a man – a strange youth I had never met – whose golden hair grew in waving lines like the plumed serpents of the god Quetzalcoatl. After that, everything was darkness and silence.
It was many hours later that I revived. The crowds had thinned as the festivities were over for that day. The sun was almost set.
It was our father who found us. Our father who, becoming anxious at our absence, had set forth to search the city for his children. His was the face before me when I opened my eyes.
But it was not his voice that said coldly, “You ate of the mushroom.”
It was not a question.
A priest. Painted black for the festival. Matted hair thick with blood. Ears torn with lacerations. Eyes blazing as he asked, “What did you see?”
My mouth seemed full of ash. Words were difficult. I whispered, “A man – a youth. That was all.”
“Your future husband, perhaps,” said my father lightly. “Is that not all girls ever dream of?” His tone was mocking, as if to convey that my actions had been merely foolish, not blasphemous.
I did not correct him. I did not dare to say that the youth I had seen was like no one who walked in this world. Hearing the fear in my father’s voice, I held my tongue.
“Come, my daughter.” He helped me to my feet. “Let us go home. I had need of you today.”
But the priest had not finished with us. He looked at Mitotiqui, who, like me, had only just awoken from his vision, and who now stared with jealousy at the protective hand our father had placed on my shoulder. Our father had made no move to help him. Terror kept him still. I felt his fingers tremble as they gripped me, but Mitotiqui could not see this.
“You, boy,” asked the priest. “You ate too?”
“Youthful folly,” my father said swiftly. “An accident, no more.”
“Nothing happens by accident,” the priest snapped in reply. He turned to my brother. “What did the gods show you?”
Did Mitotiqui know where his words would lead him? Did he speak the truth? I tortured myself with those questions in the months that followed, but could not find the answer.
Certainly I had not realized the depths of my brother’s hurt until then; had not known how desperate his desire for our father’s attention. I saw impetuous words rising in him, and longed to clap my hand upon his mouth to stop them spilling forth. But before I could move he had spoken.
Mitotiqui’s eyes met our father’s. It was to him Mitotiqui looked when he answered the priest.
“I saw the face of the god. Today I have walked beside Tezcatlipoca.”
“You are certain?”
My brother nodded. “I am.”
The priest fell upon him, and as if from nowhere a dozen more appeared, surrounding my brother like vultures clustering around a corpse. One daubed his cheeks with blue pigment and gave a triumphant shout.
“Tezcatlipoca!”
The cry was taken up by the others, and the air rang with their shrill voices. I felt hollow as a drum. My chest, my stomach and my bowels reverberated with the priests’ ecstatic yells as my brother was taken from me.
Three days later, the beautiful youth we had seen in the procession mounted the temple steps, broke his flute and submitted himself to the priests. Horns sounded as his beating heart was torn from his chest. Moments later, the flute of the new Tezcatlipoca was heard across the city.
I could not join in the rejoicing, could feel nothing but a wild, panicked desolation; for the beautiful, perfect youth chosen as replacement – he who would live the life of a god until next year’s sacrifice – was Mitotiqui.
On the day that followed, we moved as if in a dream. My father and I left for market with a single basket of goods to sell. We would not usually have gone with so little, but my father had promised the nobleman he could be found there, and felt it unwise to displease him.
We spoke little of Mitotiqui. He had been led away by the bloodied, stinking priests to be dressed in the vestments of Tezcatlipoca. Even as we were rowed to market, he would be dining on the finest food, waited on by a myriad of slaves, living a life of idleness and pleasure. He had become the god. I would see him no more; he was already dead to me. And for this, I was supposed to feel joyful.
My father had said only, “At his birth a splendid future was foretold for him. It seems the priests were right. There could be no greater glory.”
It was the correct – the proper – thing to say, but I knew not whether my father’s heart was in the words. He too had seen the look upon Mitotiqui’s face: did it now torment him as it did me?
Amongst the young men of the city, there was great rivalry to be chosen to play the part Mitotiqui had now won. Maybe he had talked of it with his schoolfellows. Maybe he had desired it. I should have been content. Yet I could not rid myself of the fear that my brother’s act had been born of jealousy. His words had come unthinkingly. And what a price he would pay for his impulsiveness, not only now but for all eternity! Tezcatlipoca must have a willing sacrifice. If my brother’s life was not joyfully given, he would not enter paradise. If he shamed the god, he would enter the perpetual night of Mictlan.
I dared not speak of my concerns, for if Tezcatlipoca heard me it would provoke his anger. But in my heart I raged against the gods. I had never before doubted or questioned them, and yet I did so now. Blasphemously, heretically, I stormed against their weakness – berating them for their fragility that they must have blood to make the sun rise, the seasons turn, the maize grow. Why were they not strong enough to do these things unaided? Why must Tezcatlipoca’s favour be bought at so high a price? Why must he have the living heart of my brother?
I had to keep my face composed; no one could know the turmoil within me. I remembered too well what had happened to the mother of a boy taken as sacrifice to Tlaloc, the water god. During the ceremony she had wept – as did we all – for the more tears that flow, the greater the devotion shown to he who makes the rain fall. But then she had begun to wail without restraint, pleading, begging the priests to let her son live. She had leapt forward and attempted to stay the priest’s hand.
She had been chastised. Painful death and eternal night were her punishment.
I could not bemoan Mitotiqui’s fate. I had to hold my tongue. Bite it, though it bled, to keep it still.
My father and I were subdued when we arrived at the marketplace. It was easy for me to keep my eyes lowered, but to move with restraint and then keep still upon the reed mat was harder. My heart was heavy, and yet my limbs ached for activity as if by moving they could relieve its dreadful weight.
Word of Mitotiqui’s elevation to deity spread quickly from trader to trader, and thus we had to endure the congratulations of every passer-by. The old man with jaguar-clawed feet croaked his delight loudly into the ears of my father.
Popotl had not returned to his home in Cholula but remained in Tenochtitlán to enjoy the festival. Now he came over to us, loud and hearty, and slapped my father upon the back. “And so you have a god in the family, Oquitchli! How much higher can your fortunes rise?”
From the corner of my eye I saw finely tooled shoes weaving between the bare feet of the populace. The nobleman approached.
“We shall see,” my father answered briefly; and Popotl, noticing the elite one coming closer, hurried away to array his own goods to their best advantage.
This time the nobleman did not gaze at the goods spread out at his leisure. He was swift in his dealings with my father. I could not hear their conversation above the noise of the crowd, so softly was it spoken. The nobleman was gone in but a few moments. And then my father bent low to address me.
“Pack our goods, Itacate. We must go.”
His voice was urgent, his tone anxious. I did as he asked without question and, ignoring the raised eyebrows and curious expressions of the other traders, we left the market.
Huddled at the far end of the canoe where the boatman could not hear us, my father told me what had been said.
“It seems your figurine has attracted great praise. The emperor himself has admired it.”
He looked as brittle as a beetle whose wing cases have been ripped off. I opened my mouth but said nothing. My act
ions had exposed him to the attention of great ones and I was full aware of his fear. And yet delight sprang within me to know my work was valued. I – who could do nothing, hope for nothing – had made a piece that was valued by Montezuma, lord and ruler of the world! It would live here on earth while I wandered the gloomy darkness of Mictlan. The knowledge would light my path. There was some small satisfaction in that.
I thought he had finished, but there was more to come. Rubbing his forehead to hold back the ache that grew there, my father added, “We are to go to the palace. Now. In haste. And in secrecy. We are to tell no one – no one – of this. He was most insistent on that point.”
“I am to come too, Father?”
“Yes. We have not the time to return home. Besides, the emperor has said he wishes the artist who crafted the figurine to come to him. In all conscience I cannot go without you.”
“But I am a girl,” I protested. “I cannot be introduced to the emperor! Are you to lose both your children?”
My father’s hand squeezed mine in reassurance. “I will not tell him you fashioned it, Itacate. It would be death to do so. But I need your eyes, your ears, your judgement on what is said. The nobleman knows we come straight from the market. He will understand I could not leave you or my wares behind. You will be my carrier. You are a woman. Behave like one. Be invisible.”
The boatman had brought us to the canal that edged the great temple precinct. We disembarked and turned to face the palace of Emperor Montezuma.
We were expected. Eagerly awaited. That much became obvious as soon as we approached. We were uncertain of where to enter the vast labyrinth of courtyards and corridors that lay before us, but as we hesitated the nobleman himself came out to meet us. I need not have been afraid of accompanying my father. So insignificant was I that the nobleman did not even glance in my direction. Instead, he ushered my father swiftly into the palace, and I was left to scurry along behind, small and worthless as an insect.
The Goldsmith's Daughter Page 6
