Jaguar Princess (7 page)

“You didn’t tie up your boat,” Mixcatl retorted.

“I never do,” Latosl replied. “I just hop off, dump the jars and pole away again. It’s much faster that way.” He squatted on the deck, long slender arms wrapped about bony knees, and fixed Mixcatl with an odd, intense gaze. “Why can’t you swim?”

“I don’t know how.”

“Someone should teach you,” said the boatboy. “You can’t live here in Tenochtitlan without knowing. It is too easy to fall into a canal.” He paused. “Maybe I can teach you.”

She stared at him, still squeezing water out of a comer of her garment.

“Think about it,” said Latosl, swinging back aboard the barge.

Haw odd he is
, thought Mixcatl, as the shape of the barge dwindled downstream.
Not at all like Six-Wind, but nice in a different way
.

She stood on the dock, letting the breeze and the sun dry her clothes. When most of the dampness was gone, she gathered up her pots and went back inside.

During the next few years Mixcatl was kept too busy by her duties to do much more than exchange a few words with the boatboy when he came. Even if she had the time, she used it to draw figures in the dust, for the images she had seen in the sacred book clamored to be recreated. Mixcatl was careful not to enter the school’s courtyard at all, even when she knew it was empty. She used other, more circuitous routes to make her way about the calmecac. She caught only brief glimpses of Six-Wind and he was always at the center of a throng of laughing, shouting boys.

But his words stayed in her mind. She was strangely gifted, she knew that. And she had already used that power to harm. Was she, as he had said, a witch? And the skill in her hands and her eyes that brought back the wonderful images in the sacred book; was that bad? She went about with her head bowed and a tight feeling in her throat. Once she had thought that good and bad meant little to her and that it would be as easy for her to harm someone as to please them. But remembering Six-Wind’s fear and the way he had withdrawn from her brought a lump into her throat.

When Mixcatl was ten, the head priest of the calmecac, an old man called Two-Rabbit Cactus Eagle, fell ill. Suddenly the atmosphere of the school seemed to change. The boys no longer went about in noisy shouting groups, but quietly, shepherded by the priests. Instead of classes, there were sessions of praying, and at night, strange bustlings up and down the corridors.

Mixcatl had never seen Cactus Eagle. Maguey Thorn told her that he was a man so old that scraggly gray hairs had sprouted from his chin. He knew all that went on in the calmecac, even down to the doings of the drudges and the slaves. He even knew about her, Mixcatl was told. If he had not given his consent for her to stay, it would not have mattered what Maguey Thorn or
Speaking Quail thought about her.

From the sadness that fell over the school, Mixcatl knew that Cactus Eagle was valued by everyone there. Even Maguey Thorn, who was the first to spread a juicy piece of gossip about anyone, spoke of him with nothing but respect. And the sadness deepened as the old man grew worse.

At night Mixcatl watched through the belled curtain by the light of a bonfire as priests and students together knelt in the courtyard. They prayed fervently and shed their own blood in sacrifice, using agave thorns to pierce their fingers, earlobes and lips. Mixcatl could smell the blood, mixed with the odors of sweat and black body-paint. As the praying grew more frenzied, some slashed their palms with obsidian blades and made cuts on their arms so that the blood ran freely and dripped into bowls carved from lava. Mixcatl had watched without feeling more than a slight tinge of revulsion, for she was no stranger to the sight of wounds and bleeding. When the supplicants set the vessels into the fire, she shivered and crept away, unable to bear the acrid smell of burning blood.

She retreated to the kitchen, with its great raised firepit. No one was there, for they were all at the old man’s side or in the courtyard, praying. The fire had died down to coals and Mixcatl knelt on the adobe brick, warmed by the heat radiating through. She stared at the glowing embers as if in a trance. Then she noticed that the great tiles that surrounded the firepit were blackened by soot. A few twigs lay near her feet, spilled from the kindling used to light the fire that morning. Mixcatl’s hand groped among them and picked one up.

She looked at the twig, then touched its end to the sooty tile. It made a mark, for the tile was of fired white clay. Idly she drew a squiggle, then a few lines that crossed each other, but they dissatisfied her and she rubbed them out. In her mind the images of the sacred book still flickered, begging to come out. She knew that despite her sharp memory, she could not keep all of the details. Some had already started to fade.

A tear started at the comer of her eye. If she did not re-create the figures, she would lose them and there was little chance she would be able to see the book again.

She took another twig, one that had a sharper point than the first and could make a finer line. The figure she wanted most to make was that of Smoking Mirror. How wonderful he had looked, with his crest of plumes, his feathered cape and his jaguar claws. And the great roar he gave, shown by the sound scrolls issuing from his open mouth. Yes, he was there in her head. And she felt he would die and wither if he were not set free.

With her tongue clamped between her teeth, Mixcatl bent over a soot-blackened tile. She drew his head and body, the spotted arms with wristlets, the elaborate knotting of the loincloth. She drew his clawed feet, and then, beneath one foot, the shape of a strange shining circle, ornamented and patterned. Speaking scrolls also emerged from the disk, as if it too had a voice.

As she made Smoking Mirror, her heart beat faster. How beautiful he was. How could he be evil? She went back to the head and frowned. How did the headdress go? And how did it fit about the jaguar ears? There were so many bands and curls and plumes and drapes and she couldn’t remember how they all fit together. She tried, but it didn’t look quite right. But it had been years since she’d glimpsed the picture and all the details weren’t there.

She leaned over the drawing, feeling tears of frustration well up in her eyes. He must be perfect. He must! But her attempts to repair the headdress only smudged it. She tried to scrape up more soot from the hearth and sprinkle it over the bad lines, but she lost a few good ones as well. With trembling fingers, she made the eyes, but they seemed to glare at her, accusing her for her clumsiness.

She backed away, a teardrop spilling down her face to land on another tile, making a gray splotch. Six-Wind was wrong. She didn’t have any great talent. She had failed to make Smoking Mirror as he should be. Angrily she snapped her scribe stick in two. She was just an infant, scratching in the dust as she had done long ago at her village. For an instant she wanted to wipe out the drawing, but something in the figure forbade it. Instead, she turned and ran from the hearthside to her small room with its bed of rushes. She flung herself down and wept in a way she never had before, not even when she had been abused as a slave. At last, still sobbing, she fell asleep.

She was woken by shrill cries that rang along the hallway. Sitting up, she wiped crusted tears from her face. Howls and lamentations were coming from the kitchen.

“It is an omen,” one voice cried. “Cactus Eagle is not yet in his shroud, yet the image of the Mocker appears, graven on our very hearth! One-Death is among us!”

Another voice joined the clamor. “Send for the high priest who oversees all the calmecacs. Only his magic is strong enough to stand against this!”

And then came a voice that Mixcatl recognized as Speaking Quail. “Wait. Is it not possible that this has another explanation? The image is the same as in the sacred book I use to teach the boys.”

“But what young whelp could have drawn this? It is by a masterful hand. No, Speaking Quail. There is more at work here than the skill of a scribe. Do you see how it is done among the soot of the hearth? What better place to strike at a household than at the place of the life-giving fire?”

“That may be.” said Speaking Quail firmly, but quietly. “Yet I will question my students. Until we rule out a human agency, we should not invoke a divine one. Cover the tile so that the women may prepare the morning meal without seeing or disturbing the image.”

In her room nearby, Mixcatl heard the voices and huddled, her arms about her knees. She noticed a black smear of soot on her hand and quickly wiped it off. She remembered her drawing. Was it that which frightened them so? Smudged and muddled as it was?

She got to her feet, meaning to creep out of her room before the priests left their discovery at the hearthside. But she was too late. She heard the slap-slap of sandals behind her. She couldn’t help a quick glance back and she caught Speaking Quail’s eye. She saw his eyes widen and his step falter for just a beat before he matched pace with the other priests. She feared that just then he had recalled her long-ago intrusion into his class and her heart thudded with fear. If he connected the incident with Smoking Mirror on the hearth, she would be killed for sacrilege.

Quickly she began her duties. How could anyone even begin to think that a lowly dull little slopjar carrier had anything to do with the image on the hearth? And why were they all so upset
by it, badly done as it was? She tossed her head, flipping her black bangs from her eyes. She should have rubbed it out, destroyed it. Even now, she could run into the kitchen and sweep her hand across the tile.

But she knew she couldn’t do that either. She had made the image. She could not bring herself to obliterate it. And what if someone caught her in the act? Then they would know without a doubt. The best thing she could do now was go about her regular routine and keep her hands from trembling too much.

There were few pots to empty. Students and teachers alike had spent the night in the courtyard, praying. Now they were clustered about Cactus Eagle’s quarters, wailing and lamenting. The sound carried through the whole school. Mixcatl bit her lip. Did this mean that the old man was dead? Had she hastened his death by making a drawing whose power she didn’t understand? Or by making it badly?

As she came out of a side hallway, she heard someone running. It was Six-Wind. His hair was disheveled and his loincloth dingy and stained. With a moan, she ducked back, but it was too late. He had seen her. In a few steps he was on her, grasping her arm in a hard grip, taking the pots from her and dropping them carelessly in a corner.

“Speaking Quail wants you. Hurryl”

He hustled her along the corridor, ducking out of sight when the slap of sandals or the murmur of voices warned that someone else was near. But there were few such incidents and they reached a larger chamber which held only one sleeping mat and a low lapdesk with pots of color beside it. There was also a rattan shelf that held more of the folded texts.

“Bring her in here,” said Speaking Quail. “Away from the curtain, for those passing can see through.”

With trepidation, Mixcatl looked up at him. His face was gentle, but haggard and weary from his night of vigilance. Multiple gashes across the backs of his forearms were crusted with scabs and a few still oozed.

He knelt before Mixcatl and stared deeply into her eyes. “Child, Cactus Eagle died last night. This morning an image of the Black Tezcatlipoca was found on the hearthstones. Many believe it is an evil thing and the sight of it has caused even more grief than Cactus Eagle’s passing. Six-Wind has given me an explanation I can hardly believe, but he has always been truthful.”

Mixcatl looked at Six-Wind out of the corner of one eye.

“Remember, I warned you,” the boy hissed back at her.

“Is it true, as he says? Do you have the skill to make such images? And to remember them exactly even though seasons have passed?”

Again she glanced at Six-Wind. If she played dumb, the boy’s story would crumble. He was the only one who had seen her make the other figures under the creosote bush long ago. And he had wiped them out with his sandal.

At her silence. Speaking Quail turned to Six-Wind. “Boy,” he said mildly, but there was a graveness that brought out a new severity in his features, “if this is an untruth, then you have disgraced yourself. A priest may not twist words wrongfully, nor may he take advantage of a time of sorrow to draw attention to himself. If your accusation against this slave is false, you will be expelled from the school and your father notified.”

Beneath his bronze, the boy flushed and then went pale. Mixcatl could only guess what it had cost him to dare tell his story to any of the priests, even one as gentle as the scholarly Speaking Quail.

Again she hesitated. She could keep herself safe, at the price of Six-Wind’s future. But it was he who had kept the other boys from attacking her in the courtyard and it was he who understood, even though he was frightened. Perhaps Speaking Quail might also understand.

She lifted her head to Speaking Quail and, with a mixture of pride and dread, answered, “Six-Wind is truthful. I made the picture on the tile.”

She felt Speaking Quail’s hands start to tremble as they slid from her shoulders. He picked up her wrist, stared at her stubby fingers with their grimy nails. Carefully he held her thumb, scraped a little of the black from beneath her nail with his own and sniffed the residue.

“Soot,” he said. “But that does not complete the proof.”

Six-Wind bent down and picked up one of Speaking Quail’s brushes, offered it to Mixcatl. “This will,” he said, pointing at the fig-bark paper spread across the low desk.

Mixcatl crouched before it, dipped the brush and held it over the paper. Again the sacred text was spread before her and its figures came to life in her mind. She dare not do Smoking Mirror; he was too dangerous. Instead she painted the undulating serpent decked with plumes.

Before she had even finished. Speaking Quail took down a book from the shelf, opened it on the mat and spread before her the same page she had glimpsed that day in the courtyard. He laid the two figures side by side. Except for the fact that the girl’s drawing was done in a single color of brown paint and the figure in the book was brightly hued, the two were similar. Mixcatl could see some flaws in her painting, but Speaking Quail reacted in amazement.