Jaguar Warrior

by Sandy Fussell

  It’s not much of a plan but it’s better than nothing.

  Lali smiles encouragingly. “While we have to wait, we should dry your jaguar. Otherwise he’ll be able to smell you even without a wind blowing.”

  “Something strange happened when the jaguar died.” I hesitate. It’s important that she doesn’t laugh at me. “I felt something. As if I was the jaguar.”

  “Nahual,” she whispers. “A spirit double.”

  Even Lali only needs a few words this time. But a nahual rarely makes itself known, except to the most powerful priests. Even Ichtaca didn’t have one.

  I nod. “I’ve often imagined animals talking to me but this time I know the jaguar did. Why would a nahual choose me?”

  “You’re the runner. You are going to save our people. It is a great honour to be chosen and it means you are somebody special.” She pokes me with a thin twig. “Even if you have got scrawny stick legs.”

  I’ve never been important before and no one has ever told me I’m special. It feels good.

  Then I remember what the merchant said. The runner carries the key to a city.

  “What sort of runner arrives at the gates without a key? Ichtaca didn’t give me one.”

  “I know he would have given you everything you needed,” Lali insists. “Maybe his name is enough.”

  I’m still not convinced. Even though Ichtaca is the wisest and most powerful priest in all Mexica, is his name enough to open the gates of Purépecha? What if in his haste, he just forgot to give me the key?

  “Don’t worry, Atl. You are nahual now and already the forest has provided something fitting for you to wear when you stand before the High Priest of Tzintzuntzan. You might be an ex-slave but soon you will have a cloak every Jaguar Warrior will envy.”

  It’s true. The two bravest army battalions in Mexica are the Eagle Warriors and the Jaguar Warriors. One wears feathers and the other wears fur. Together they represent the might of the great Serpent-Sun god and all Mesoamerica bows before them.

  Except Purépecha, the one state that always refused to bend. Try as they might, no flock of eagles or prowl of jaguars could make it happen. Lali hands me a small bone-handled knife and together we scrub and scrape the skin of leftover bits of tissue and clots of dried blood. It’s the finest pelt I’ve ever seen. No wonder the merchant wanted it.

  The work is heavy on the muscles but light on my heart. As I scrub and scour, I hum a battle poem the temple guards sing. It helps distract me from thinking about the time leaking away. There’s always a jaguar in any song of battle. I like that.

  Come dance with the eagles and the ocelots,

  Warriors all. Come dance among the flowers …

  There’s always flowers too. I’m not so keen about those.

  Time passes even more slowly without the conch shell trumpets to mark the phases of the day. In Tenochtitlan, the trumpeters climb to the top of the temple and their notes sound out six times a day.

  That won’t be happening now. Even if the Spanish don’t ransack the city, they will destroy its people. They know Mexica will fight as long as it can. Even the women and children will take up lances and sticks.

  I can’t let them down. I can’t condemn other children to a life of slavery like the one I had.

  As dusk creeps across the forest, Lali unpacks strips of dried rabbit and two corn cakes each.

  “There’s no time,” I protest.

  “If we don’t eat before we go, your rumbling stomach will tell the whole forest someone is coming. It might be our last meal for a while.”

  I hate to admit it but she’s right as usual.

  When our bellies are finally full, Lali picks up her bow and hands me my lance, the tip still caked with dried jaguar blood. It’s a symbol of courage in my hand and I’m not afraid to use it.

  “I won’t hesitate to kill the merchant if necessary,” I say. The jaguar is an expert killer.

  “If you miss, my arrow will pierce his heart,” promises Lali.

  She’s not making fun of me. There are no jokes now. We stand together like we did when the jaguar leapt.

  The approaching night tickles the hair on the back of my neck. Every nerve ending is flayed open. Listening. The soft sounds of the evening bellow in my ears. Even the muffled churr of the nightjar clangs loud. My eyes see things I’ve never noticed before. The forest is full of shadows.

  Silently, I send a prayer to the Night Rabbit, god of pulque. “Please take your friend running across the sky with you this evening.”

  As we near the merchant’s camp, I hear his voice. An off-key caterwaul. But it’s beautiful music to us and an answer to my prayer.

  I peer through the trees. The merchant is sprawled spread-eagled on the ground, his right hand firmly grasping a pulque flask. His boots are off and his coat is scuffed with dirt. I smile. Tomorrow he won’t have anyone to wash and dry it for him. He’ll have to do his own dirty work for a change.

  The boy curls huddled, just as we left him. Perhaps he is asleep too.

  Lali gestures me towards the boy while she stands watch over the merchant, arrow nocked against her bow.

  The jaguar inside me senses the boy’s pain. My lips curl into a snarl and a low growl escapes. The boy startles, scanning the undergrowth for hungry eyes. He finds nothing. His chin drops back onto his chest.

  “Don’t be afraid,” I whisper.

  He lifts his head again.

  “I came back like I promised.”

  This time he searches the trees until he finds me. His eyes wide, still empty of life.

  “Can you stand?” I ask.

  He rises awkwardly. He’s shorter than me. Thinner. Maybe a whole year younger. It’s hard to be sure because sometimes a master doesn’t feed his slaves well.

  “Come on.” I call him over.

  When he shakes his head I understand – sometimes it’s hard to recognise freedom when it finally comes to get you.

  Slowly, I move out from behind the trees. His eyes never leave mine until I am beside him, gently touching his shoulder.

  “Is there anything you want to bring with you?” I ask.

  His eyes say no. They just want to forget.

  With a groan, the merchant rolls onto his side and reaches for another flask, oblivious to our presence. The boy edges towards the trees. He may not remember freedom but he knows slavery too well. And he knows he doesn’t want to stay one moment longer.

  Lali motions us to wait. “We’ll need some extra supplies and more herbs.” Ever practical, she sorts through the merchant’s packs, taking dried plants, a bright woven blanket, an ornately decorated water bottle and a fine cotton cloak. Nothing but the best.

  “He owes you much more,” Lali tells the boy. “But this will have to do.”

  She unties the eagle feather from her neck and tucks it in the top of the pulque bottle.

  “Is that a good idea?” I ask. “He’ll know it was us.”

  Lali’s eyes flash defiantly. “I want him to know.”

  I agree. Whether it’s a good idea or not, I want him to know too.

  “How is your leg?” Lali asks the boy.

  He doesn’t answer but he lifts his cloak for her to look.

  “Healing well,” announces Lali. “You will be able to run soon but tonight we will have to walk.”

  “We’re in a hurry,” I explain to our new companion. “I have an important message to deliver and many lives depend on it. It is also a wise move to be as far away from the merchant as quickly as possible.”

  The boy nods. He knows the merchant will give chase. We have stolen not only valuable goods, but also his pride.

  We don’t tell the boy the other reason we can’t afford to lose any more time: that another more dangerous man follows in our footsteps. It doesn’t really matter to the boy anyway. With the merchant he was already dead, but here with us, at least he has a chance of living. And eventually, when he can run, we’ll race towards freedom together.

  The bo
y moves to take Lali’s pack.

  “No.” She brushes his hand away. “You are not a slave now. We are all equal. But I have to warn you,” she teases behind her hand, “one of us might be a jaguar.”

  Turning to me, the boy stares deep. His eyes are still in darkness but a glimmer of light shines through. Hope.

  CHAPTER TEN

  THE CAPTAIN

  Carefully, the Captain arranges the body to face east, legs tucked up close against the stomach, so the corpse will curl like an unborn child in the earth’s womb. He places a small green stone in the dead man’s mouth. Now no jaguar will steal the soul as it makes its way eastwards to heaven.

  After lifting the body into its newly dug grave, Huemac seals the entrance with dirt. His obligation is complete. Huemac smiles. When he shook the man from his pulque-laced stupor and poured water down his throat until he gagged, it reminded Huemac of past victory campaigns when his soldiers celebrated too long and loud. It has been a good day and an even better night.

  He liked the merchant, a man who could drink hard but snap to attention when ordered. Unfortunately, the merchant was a spy and in any war only one side can win. Huemac’s side. An Eagle Warrior doesn’t like to lose.

  Huemac respects the trade in secrets, the searching out of information. It’s a task as dangerous as any lance-to-lance combat. Among his friends are many Mexica merchant spies. But this man was from the Bay, an outsider who asked too many questions about Tenochtitlan’s defences and the cost of her battle against the Spanish lords.

  Still, he was a valuable source of information and a skilled trader. Even at the end, he traded his knowledge for a quick death and an honourable burial.

  Head bowed, Huemac commends the spy to the Serpent-Sun god’s care.

  Go swiftly on butterfly wings.

  A warrior knows what matters most. It is not how you live that determines your path to heaven but how you die. And the merchant died with dignity. When Huemac raised his lance for the killing thrust, the man threw himself onto the point. Impaled, his eyes fixed on the moon and the thirteen levels of heaven beyond.

  Like a craftsman sorting precious stones, Huemac sifts through the new information he learned from the merchant. He was not tracking two boys. One of the children is a girl and her father is an army doctor. An Eagle Warrior too.

  Huemac can’t remember a doctor’s daughter. But the story about the girl is true. As proof, the merchant gave Huemac the feather she left behind. Now he wears it proudly in his waistband. Four eagle feathers!

  Somewhere, Huemac has a daughter of his own, but his greatest regret is he has no son. His beautiful wife died in their first year of marriage. Nenetl, Nenetl. Huemac sighs. Her memory slices painfully, but he doesn’t cry. He never has. Yet inside, deep as he can push it down, he still hurts. Nenetl died a valiant warrior, battling to give birth to their child. But the girl won and his wife went on to heaven before him. Huemac was left alone.

  Be hard. Be strong, be brave, he chides himself. Mexica needs you.

  He could easily have had another wife. Or more. Many women would be honoured to marry the Captain of the Temple Guard, a glorious leader who brought home more captives for sacrifice than any other soldier. The old men on the temple steps sing songs about him. And he is not even dead yet. Imagine how they will sing then.

  There are three children now. The boy has stolen the merchant’s slave. When the sacrifice is returned threefold, Huemac will be the thrice-triumphant hero.

  The children are so close he can smell their fear. Huemac inhales deep. But how will he herd the three together so that none escape? The answer is obvious to a seasoned hunter. He will move ahead and lay a trap for his prey. It will not be difficult to overtake them. The second boy is injured and will need to rest soon.

  Teeth clenched, he recalls the merchant’s description of how the first boy killed a jaguar. The boy was fearless and unflinching, the spy said. And a spy is always a good watcher. So the boy is not a coward after all. The Serpent-Sun god has chosen a worthy victim. It hardly seems fair that in the end, the boy and his friends will be rewarded by the gods, as are all those who give their blood to the sun, no matter how unwillingly.

  But life is not fair. A soldier knows that.

  It makes Huemac angry to think the boy is masquerading as a Jaguar Warrior. “Soon the pelt will be mine,” he whispers. “I deserve it.”

  The boy will grovel bare-shouldered before him.

  He wipes the merchant’s blood from his blade.

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  JAGUAR WARRIOR

  The night unravels slowly. Our steps tick in tedious time with the cicadas. Somewhere behind us the Captain races to narrow the gap. Maybe the merchant travels with him. But we can’t move any faster.

  We walk in silence. The boy limps beside us without complaint. Even Lali is preoccupied, her face a silver-lit mask of concentration. Round eyes glimmer bright and luminous. “Citlali” means star and tonight it suits her perfectly. Which reminds me we haven’t told the boy our names yet. “I’m Atl,” I say. “And this is Lali.”

  “Zolan,” the boy mumbles.

  It’s an enormous gesture of trust. When you are a slave your name is the only thing you own.

  The darkness links us together, our sharing of names has drawn fine lines of familiarity between us, thin but spider web strong.

  Lali places her arm around Zolan’s shoulders. “You’re with us now.”

  I echo her reassurance. “No one tells Lali and me what to do. We’re on our way to Purépecha to see the High Priest.”

  “I was born there, in Tzintzuntzan, the place of the hummingbirds.” This time Zolan doesn’t whisper; his voice is filled with quiet pride.

  Zolan is from Purépecha, just like me! A bond of blood runs between us. It’s a good omen.

  “I’m sorry I’m slowing you down. Perhaps I should travel on alone,” Zolan offers.

  “Don’t worry,” I say. “Tomorrow we will make up for lost time.”

  I know we can. Together Lali and I rescued one boy. Together the three of us can save so many more. And I’m not going to let the Captain stand in my way.

  I’ve often walked in darkness, accompanying Ichtaca through the empty city streets. A temple priest has many evening tasks to attend – choosing naming days, healing the sick and helping prepare the dead for their journey.

  In the laneways of Tenochtitlan, darkness is black and murky grey around the edges. But here in the forest, it is alive and green. It sighs with the whispers of a thousand leaves. It blinks with glowing nocturnal eyes.

  Across the forest an owl hoots, calling to the jaguar inside me. I am part of the night. One of its own. Everything is different. The world feels sharper. Smells deeper. When the moon climbs high, the jaguar nahual becomes strong.

  The softest noises cannot escape me. Newly emerged dragonflies hum. Frogs croak. Even the beetle stomps. But there is no sound of marching feet. No slap of sandals in the leaves. The Captain will not catch us tonight.

  “I think Zolan needs to rest,” says Lali. “Just for a few hours.”

  “I’m fine,” he argues.

  But he is not. His face is pale and ghostly. Even though I don’t want to stop, the choice is already made.

  I lead the way off the path and into the denser undergrowth. Searching for a place where we can sleep hidden from view.

  “What about there?” I point to the mossy base of a giant ceiba tree.

  We settle down, backs against the trunk. Night drapes itself gently across our shoulders, comfortable like an old well-worn cloak, hiding and healing. Zolan is soon asleep.

  “If we are lucky, the Captain will have stopped to talk to the merchant. I expect he would try to learn something useful about us,” whispers Lali. “That will slow him down. Maybe the merchant will trade the feather I left behind. An Eagle Warrior would kill to get hold of that.”

  “Maybe the merchant is dead,” I say.

  In the silence we’re thinkin
g the same thing. What will happen if the Captain catches up with us? Three kids, one injured, can’t possibly outrun a Mexica soldier. And the Captain is very, very good at his job.

  I close my eyes and try not to imagine.

  “What if the Captain overtakes us? He might even be waiting up ahead,” Lali suggests.

  “We have to solve each problem one by one.” I echo Lali’s earlier advice.

  She reaches over and squeezes my arm.

  The jaguar pelt is soft and warm against my chest. What if I had been born a Jaguar Warrior? Would I have marched with the Captain at the head of a column of soldiers? The Eagle and the Jaguar are the pride of Mexica’s army. Or would I rather run than fight?

  Tossing and turning, I can’t find a comfortable place to rest my head or my heart.

  “What’s wrong?” Lali asks.

  “I was thinking how different my life might have been if I wasn’t a slave.”

  “You’re not a slave, Atl, but I am going to tell you what to do.” She leans close to whisper into my ear. “Go to sleep.”

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  THE CAPTAIN

  Even in the darkness the Captain’s keen eyes can easily see where the children left the path. Should I look for them? Perhaps I should surprise them sleeping.

  But he can’t be sure and he has no time to waste. A trap will be much safer and all three will be secured at once. Huemac is on a mission from the gods and he knows the Serpent-Sun god will provide. He scours the forest for what he needs. It’s not there. This is not the place. He runs on.

  The change in the depth of forest shadows is subtle but Huemac sees it clearly. Where the two large rocks stand together like soldiers, the ground is dark and sinister. Hungry. A fissure in the forest floor is just what the Eagle Warrior was looking for. Huemac drops onto his stomach and leans into the darkness. It is a long way down and an impossible climb back up.

  Still, there is work to be done. The night is cool but the sweat glistens against Huemac’s skin as he cuts branches to make a false matting to cover the hole. Another tree felled will force the children to veer between the stones. A gateway to death. One stone leads to another. Huemac imagines the boy, chest bare, stretched across the Sun Stone. He imagines the knife. In that moment Mexica will be saved.