Jaguar Princess (8 page)

“Where did you leam this? Were you given schooling?”

Mixcatl shook her head. The only thing she remembered was the veined hand laying brushstrokes on rough paper. She didn’t know who that hand even belonged to. Her grandmother?

“I bought you,” said Speaking Quail, running a hand distractedly through his tangled hair. “I have responsibility for you. But if I had known…why didn’t you tell me?”

Mixcatl had no answer. Until she saw the book, she herself hadn’t known. But would Speaking Quail believe that?

“Well, one thing is clear. We must bring the truth into the open. Cactus Eagle’s funeral rites will not be marred by rumors that an evil sign appeared out of nowhere to disturb his journey to the
underworld.”

Mixcatl looked up at him. Dare she ask the question that had been troubling her since she heard of the old man’s death? “Did my picture make him die?”

“No, child. He was very old. Everyone knew that his end would come soon, although they did not want to accept it.” A corner of Speaking Quail’s mouth twitched. “But because of that, we still have a problem. I don’t believe that what you did harmed him or will cast any evil influences over his spirit, but there are other priests who would be quick to see otherwise.”

“If we are the only ones who know, then why tell the others?” asked Six-Wind.

Speaking Quail pointed to the brush that Mixcatl still held. “Because such an extraordinary talent and memory is a gift that can not lie unused. And it will not, even if she has to scratch in the dirt outside. Do I speak the truth, little scribe?”

Mixcati closed her eyes. She knew that she could not keep from drawing any more than she could stop breathing or eating or making water. Slowly she nodded.

“Will you go before an assembly of the calmecac and show them the truth behind the tile-painting?” Speaking Quail asked the girl. Again she nodded.

Six-Wind had been looking more and more worried as Speaking Quail questioned Mixcatl. “Honorable teacher, won’t they just kill her?” he burst out. “Even if the priests believe that the work is by her hand, they might argue that some evil influence possessed her.”

“There is that chance,” agreed Speaking Quail. “But by the same token it could be said that such a child might be blessed by the gods. Was it not Plumed Serpent himself who brought us the art of setting down the sacred hymns and histories in books? Should we kill a slave-child for having that art? No. That is how I will argue.”

“You are a teacher of literature, not oratory,” said Six-Wind softly.

“My tongue is not as quick nor as flowery as that of some, but it will serve.” Speaking Quail gave Mixcatl and Six-Wind a tired smile. “Besides, if the judgment goes against her, I will suffer too. I brought her among us.”

Six-Wind took a shaky breath, then straightened his shoulders. “I’ll stand by you. If any teacher has made me see what is right, it has been you. Speaking Quail.”

The tutor clapped him on the shoulder and Mixcatl could see that the boy’s allegiance made his eyes shine brighter. She felt a sudden surge of hope. With two such friends beside her, perhaps she had a chance.

“I think you should be apprenticed to the priests who keep records,” said Speaking Quail to Mixcatl. “They can teach you far more about the art of glyph-painting than I or anyone else here.”

Her heart began to beat fast. To be among others who had the same talent and who would share it with her. It seemed like a dream beyond anything she could hope for.

But she also felt a new hunger. To know about those figures in the sacred books and what they meant. To know the stories behind the names. The questions came so rapidly she could not sort them out.

“Please,” she blurted awkwardly. “Tell me more about Smoking Mirror.”

Speaking Quail glanced at Six-Wind. “I have done this girl an injustice,” he said. “Assuming she was dull witted, I didn’t think she needed the kind of schooling that is the right of every child in Tenochtitlan, whether slave or freeborn. All right, little scribe, listen and I will tell you.”

He took a seat on his mat and Mixcatl crouched nearby, hugging her knees. He told legends and sang hymns about Smoking Mirror, who was the Mocker, the Trickster, the capricious god who would raise men’s fortunes on a whim and then cast them down again. Tezcatlipoca was the Black One, whose birth-sign was One-Death, yet he was also the god of youth and the protector of slaves.

In these myths, he appeared not only as the dancing jaguar that so fascinated Mixcatl, but as a human warrior who fought with other gods and against them. And he could suffer and bleed. One tale told of how he had sinned against the gods and in punishment had been trapped by the knife god Tecpatl within an enclosure of blood-red obsidian blades. When Tezcatlipoca tried to escape, the knife god caught and held him by the foot. Tezcatlipoca wrenched himself free, but left his foot behind. The severed foot was replaced by a smoking mirror that gave the god his name.

Speaking Quail got out the book with Smoking Mirror’s image and showed Mixcatl how the god’s sandaled human foot projected beneath the pad and claws of the jaguar. There was no foot on the other leg. Instead the jaguar claws rested atop the disk that had smoke-gray curls emanating from its surface.

She frowned. She had drawn him as a jaguar, not a human cloaked in a jaguar skin. To her he was still the jaguar that danced atop the smoking mirror.

When she said that to Speaking Quail, he stopped and stroked his beardless chin.

“Some of the scholars who have studied the most ancient records say that Smoking Mirror’s original name was Tepeyolotli, the divine jaguar called Heart-of-the-Mountain.”

The name stirred something inside Mixcatl. She had heard it before, or something similar. Where? When?

She realized that Speaking Quail’s form had fallen into shadow and Six-Wind had silently departed. Stiffly she uncurled and felt a yawn stretch her mouth. Evening had fallen, unheeded by either of them. Mixcatl was too caught up in listening and Speaking Quail in the telling.

He stirred, as if waking from a trance. “Off to your room now,” he said, getting to his feet. “And don’t worry about tomorrow. It is in the hands of the one I’ve been telling you about, and I think that he smiles on you, child.”

Mixcatl scurried to her room, curled up on her bed of rushes. She whispered “Heart-of-the-Mountain” to herself several times. Then slowly she drifted into sleep.

Early the next morning. Six-Wind knelt by Mixcatl’s side and shook her shoulder.

“Speaking Quail has asked for an assembly of the whole school,” the boy said as Mixcatl blinked and sat up. “They are already together in the courtyard. Hurry!”

She straightened her skirt, rumpled by sleep, and drew her mantle about her shoulders, for the morning was cold. The boy led her down the corridor and then out through the belled curtain.

All the priests were waiting, arrayed in their black bodypaint and richly colored cloaks. Gold arm-and wristbands shimmered in the early sunlight. A few wore gold lip plugs or earlobe disks. The students huddled together in small groups of boys their own age. They fidgeted and laughed nervously, but soon fell quiet under a glower from one of the priests.

Mixcatl looked anxiously for Speaking Quail and found him sitting apart from the others. He too was covered in black, his hair oily and tousled, his cheeks fiercely striped, but his face was somehow still gentle. And in one corner of the courtyard, surrounded by chests and lying upon cloaks even more magnificent than the ones the priests wore, was a bundle about the size of a man lying on his side with his legs drawn up. The bound and shrouded corpse of Cactus Eagle would also be a witness to whatever judgment was made here.

Eyes fastened on Mixcatl as she came into the courtyard with Six-Wind. Their gazes held wonder, disbelief, grief, rage and hatred. Mixcatl knew she had been invisible to the priests and teachers at the school, just another one of the nameless workers and slaves that kept the school running. Now she had become visible, as if someone had turned over a rock and found something uniquely evil or wonderful underneath.

Speaking Quail beckoned her to his side. She stood, fingers twined together, her eyes unfocused so that she stared out at the black and bronze faces without really seeing them. Wishing she could become a statue or a block of stone, she stood still while Speaking Quail told the priests and their students how the image of Smoking Mirror had come onto the hearth tile.

When he finished, the priests and boys looked at’ each other in shock. Eyes narrowed, lips curled.

“Let the slave bitch be sacrificed to the god whose image she made,” cried one voice.

“Spill her blood here before the corpse of Cactus Eagle, that his spirit may see that the evil has been cleansed from its path,” another shouted.

“Take her to the Mocker’s temple and bend her backwards over the altar stone. If she wishes to serve Smoking Mirror, she may give him her heart.”

Mixcatl clamped her teeth together and held her lips rigid so that they would not tremble. At last the cries and threats died away, as if those who made them had courage enough to shout, but not to act. Speaking Quail rose to speak.

“Have I come mistakenly to the wrong gathering?” he asked mildly. “I thought I was among students and scholars who valued learning more than vengeance. Perhaps I have made a wrong turn and come to the school of those reckless ones who are trained only for war.”

Mixcatl watched out of the corner of her eye while Speaking Quail paused. Grumbles and mutters came from the priests, then some reluctant shaking of heads.

“Ah, so we remember who we are. That is better,” said Speaking Quail. “Remember Plumed Serpent, who is the patron god of this calmecac. Would he act so toward a slave? And would Cactus Eagle, if he still lived?”

A few gazes turned downward in shame, both among the students and their teachers.

“One of the things we strive for here is the mastery of the scribe’s art. You know how difficult and painstaking a task it is and how students struggle to make the simplest figures. We try to produce artists with the skill needed to copy the sacred books, and as we all know, very few succeed.” Speaking Quail paused. “Why then should we turn with hatred on such talent when it appears among us?”

“Would you keep her here. Speaking Quail?” asked another priest roughly. “The calmecac is not for slaves or for girl-children.”

“No. She will go where she is needed. To the priests who keep the records and the sacred calendar.”

Murmurs broke out in the courtyard, some agreeing, others shaking their heads. Mixcatl could see fingers touching blades of obsidian taken from their sashes.

Suddenly Six-Wind got up from his place, breathing hard. “If you kill her, I will not stay at this school. Better to be a warrior or even a ditch digger than a priest who kills because he is jealous of a slave girl’s pictures!”

At the looks that passed across the priests’ faces, Mixcatl knew that Six-Wind had struck home. Even with his rough boy’s words, he had made them face the truth. Yes, they were jealous. All of them. And now they knew it and were ashamed.

“Very well, Speaking Quail,” said the elderly priest who had objected to girl-children being in the school. “Take her to the priests of the calendar, if they will have her. But she will not stay here. There is a strangeness about her that has already shown its influence among the students,” and here he glanced meaningfully at Six-Wind.

Mixcatl stood stiffly until the last of the priests had left the courtyard. She felt a touch on her shoulder and released her rigid muscles too soon so that she collapsed against Speaking Quail.

“It is over, child,” he said steadying her. “And we have won at least the first battle.”

Mixcatl felt tears burning in her eyes, but she held them back. “The priests of the calendar,” she choked. “Will they take me?”

“They would be fools not to, once I show them your drawings.” Speaking Quail smiled at her. “And they are not fools.”

He turned to Six-Wind. “Young man, those were hard words, but they needed to be said. I am grateful.”

Six-Wind tilted his chin up, but Mixcatl could see that he was biting his lip. He had endangered his future, perhaps even his life, for her sake.

The words did not come easily to her lips, but she said them. “I am grateful too. Six-Wind.”

“Well, gratitude doesn’t fill stomachs,” said the boy awkwardly. “All this has made me hungry. I wonder if we can talk old Earthquake Bosom out of some stew and tortillas?”

Mixcatl followed him to the kitchen.

EVENING HAD COME
to the palace of Tezcotzinco. A moist breeze blew through the window while a shaft of fading sunlight illuminated the low table where Wise Coyote knelt. Before him lay a large sheet of varnished bark-fiber paper containing a hand-drawn map of Lake Texcoco’s northwestern shore with the island and causeways of Tenochtitlan. From the glyph that marked Chaultapec, the Spring of the Grasshopper, a red line ran down to a point near the lake. The line marked the section of the aqueduct that had already been completed. It had taken four years of planning, measuring, trenching and masonry to bring the project this far.

Wise Coyote sighed to himself, remembering the site where he had promised to build a temple to his gentle god. The place still lay undisturbed, for the Chaultapec aqueduct had consumed all the time he could spare from his duties as Speaker-King.

Yet he did not protest or resent the demands of the project, for he enjoyed the tasks of engineering. It gave him great satisfaction to reshape the earth to the needs of men. He had done so on a lesser scale with the dams and reservoirs at Tezcotzinco and now he was well on the way to achieving his greatest triumph—two massive stone troughs that would carry fresh water into the center of Tenochtitlan. He knew that he was building his own memorial, for long after his death men would point to the aqueduct and speak his name.

The first segment had been easy, for it was a straight downhill run from the high springs of Chaultapec to the lakeshore. The next section troubled him. He studied a lightly drawn blue line that showed the projected routing.

Should he stick with his original plan and run the trough along an existing causeway to Tenochtitlan or change it and strike out boldly across the lake? The latter idea would be more difficult, but it would provide a straighter run. And if he threw a dike across the lake to support the aqueduct, it could serve a double purpose by preventing brackish water from the west and south portions of the lake from contaminating the fresh water in the north.

He dipped his brush in dark-blue ink and bent over the map. A smile came across his face as he extended the line straight out across the lake. How the building-masters would cry out with dismay when they saw his plan. It couldn’t be done, they would cry. They always told him that his schemes were impossible and then they worked as hard as possible to carry them out.

When his revision was complete, he rinsed his brush and laid it aside. The light would soon be too dim to work by. Besides, he had done enough and sitting cross-legged, bending over the low table, had made his back stiff. He got to his feet, stretching. Having eaten an early supper at his worktable, he was now free to do as he wished for the rest of the evening.

He decided to treat himself to a session in his library, considering questions about religion that had long troubled him.

The library at Tezcotzinco was a museum as well, for in addition to scrolls, tablets and codices, there were ancient polychrome potsherds, pieces of bas-relief limestone carvings, statuettes and other artifacts. Wise Coyote had gathered them during his travels. At first, when he was younger, his collection was random—he took what appeared most beautiful or whatever provided interesting information about its ancient creators. In recent years, the collection had taken on a
new theme, reflecting Wise Coyote’s search into the beginnings of Aztec beliefs.

Here, beneath the torches burning in their niches, stood the crumbling pillars of warrior-gods from the Toltec city of Tula, carved sun-disk calendars from the great vanished ceremonial center of Teotihuacan, and Oaxacan stelae covered with corpselike figures whose outflung arms and legs made them appear to be dancing.

The soft jingle of bells as the door cloth was pulled aside took Wise Coyote’s attention from his artifacts. He looked around in annoyance, for he had not wanted to be disturbed, but when he saw that the visitor was his son Huetzin, he held out his arms in welcome.

“I thought you would be in the library,” said Huetzin. He had grown since the day when he had come to Wise Coyote with a little bird carved from stone and the unwitting tale that had cost his half brother’s life. Now he was a dark, slender, delicate youth of sixteen, with his mother’s eyes and the deft fingers of a craftsman.

Wise Coyote could guess why he had come. Huetzin often came to gaze at or handle the pieces in the library museum. He was very careful and respectful, so Wise Coyote let him do what he wished. He knew that Huetzin was studying the various styles and techniques used in those works in order to develop and expand his own. He was still working on a way to express Wise Coyote’s idea of the gentle God of the Near and By.

“I am sorry that the building of Tloque Nahaque’s temple had to be postponed,” he said with a shy smile, “but it does give me more time to try some new ideas.”

“How can one make an image of a god who has no form?” Wise Coyote asked quizzically, then added, “Never mind. If there is a way, Huetzin, you will find it.”

He embraced his son, then together they walked about the library.

He watched as Huetzin’s gaze strayed along the shelves lit by torchlight, past the carvings of the feathered serpent Quetzalcoatl, past images of old gods and spirits, until they came to rest on one figure, set alone from the others.

It was a freestanding jade figurine of a man holding what looked like a large infant up in front of him. The statuette was about two handspans high. The figure’s head was large for its body and shaped like a block with the comers only slightly rounded. Long, narrow ears had been carved at the sides of the head. The hair had either been depicted in a stylized manner or the figure wore a tight-fitting cap. The nose was flat and spread, the eyes were holes shaped like the sharp-ended oval of a pumpkin seed beneath high-arched brows. The chin was strong, but the mouth was so strongly bowed and pursed that the face looked petulant.

The infant, if that’s what it was, looked even stranger. The body, though small, was not proportioned exactly like a baby’s. The neck was thicker, the arms and legs stouter, making the small figure look like a sexless obese little adult. It had a bald, square head that was cleft at the top. The slanted eyes were narrowed ovals, slightly crossed, like the eyes of a great cat. Beneath the flattened nose lay the mouth, the upper lip thick and hoop-shaped, the corners drawn down in a snarl or cry. The gums showed a prominent alveolar ridge and were nearly toothless except for two tiny sharp fangs.

Huetzin reached for the piece, then checked his hand, as if its strangeness had made him think twice about touching it.

“That one is new,” he remarked. “Where did you get it, Father?”

“It was brought to me by a merchant friend of mine, a
pochteca
who trades in the eastern jungles.”

“How ugly, yet how well crafted,” Huetzin said.

Wise Coyote nodded agreement. That had been his first reaction upon seeing the statuette.

“A master hand has done this,” said Huetzin, picking up the statue. “Look how the carver has used curves and form to make the image look as if it is about to move. And it appears larger than it really is. I would give much if I could carve such powerful lines!” Huetzin ran his finger along the arm of the figurine. “But I would not waste my skill on making repulsive babies.”

“I too do not find the piece beautiful,” said Wise Coyote. “I was considering placing it in my storage-house, but each time I look at it, I find myself more intrigued.”

Huetzin turned his head to stare at his father, his brows raised.

“You know that I have long sought the beginnings of our religion,” said Wise Coyote. “Left-Handed Hummingbird is not the first god and the last. Nor is Quetzalcoatl, for all that the Feathered Serpent is a much worthier lord. Even Tlaloc is not the most ancient. There is a tradition that lies behind them all and I am determined to seek it out.”

“Why, father?”

Wise Coyote surprised himself by his answer. “Because, if there is true power in our beliefs, it lies beyond the legends and bloody steps of the temples. I have sought all my life for a god that I don’t have to force myself to worship. Yet I still hunger for the divine, Huetzin.”

“Tloque Nahaque—“

“Is only a misty dream, a slender hope that I can fall back on if I cannot find the truth,” Wise Coyote interrupted, more sharply than he intended. There was a short silence, then he smiled down at his son. “Sometimes I think it is not a good thing for a man to become too wise. If I had kept my ignorance, I could have worshipped the gods of Texcoco without question. Do not become too wise, Huetzin. The price is heresy.”

“Someone must have wisdom,” Huetzin said. “Should I be sorry or glad that it is you. Father?”

“Both, perhaps,” said Wise Coyote softly, thinking of Ilhuicamina. He shook off his moodiness.

Huetzin was studying the statuette. “There is an odd catlike look about both faces,” he said. “Especially the small figure’s. The mouth reminds me of the jowls of a puma or jaguar when the beast is snarling. I have sculpted those cats, trying to catch the right expression, but it is very difficult.” He paused, tapping the figurine. “This artist could have done it.”

“So then, my conjecture might be right,” said Wise Coyote.

Huetzin looked surprised.

“In the eastern jungles, there are legends about an ancient people who existed long before any of the tribes we have now. They were said to have great power, so they were known as the Olmeca or Magicians. They worshipped the jaguar and it was said that there were those among them who were half jaguar, half man.” He paused. “I think this statuette represents a Magician holding up a child born from the union of human and jaguar. Your impression helps support my idea.”

“But what has this to do with your search for the divine?” asked Huetzin.

“I read many tablets and books while I was thinking about my temple to Tloque Nahaque. One very old one said that my God of the Near and By is an aspect of our Tezcatlipoca. As you know, Tezcatlipoca often appears in the form of a giant jaguar called Tepeyolotli, Heart-of-the-Mountain.” Wise Coyote spread his hands. “That cannot be an accident.”

“So you think that your gentle god had his origins in this?” Huetzin tapped the figurine.

“Yes, and there is more. If there is a key to the divine, it rests in the hands of these lost people. If they indeed had the powers that legend says, then perhaps they were more than just men. Perhaps they were the first gods. Perhaps it is from the Magicians that Tezcatlipoca and Tloque Nahaque are descended.”

Huetzin looked puzzled and Wise Coyote knew why. The statuette was alien and frightening in its ferocity. How could the idea of a gentle god have arisen from such unpromising beginnings?

Wise Coyote watched his son replace the figurine in its place. He thought about sharing one more thing with Huetzin—the thought that the statuette, grotesque as it was, represented reality—that the jaguar-people had really existed.

Why else would their legends have been preserved after so long a time? Why else would their powers still be spoken of in respectful tones by the people who still lived in the eastern jungles? Why would the image of the jaguar have continued as a strong undercurrent in Aztec religion, emerging in Tepeyolotli, Heart-of-the-Mountain?

Wise Coyote had to confess that the statuette’s appearance chilled him. The idea that Tloque Nahaque might have his beginning in this shook him deeply.

But the path to the divine can never be straight or easy
, he thought, as he extinguished the torches and followed Huetzin from the library.

Several days later, while presiding at his court in Texcoco. Wise Coyote heard the cries of nobles as an old tale-teller was led through their ranks.

“Aagh! How he stinks. Bring him through quickly, quickly!”

“What does the tlatoani want with such as this? It is the fourth time that he has brought such wretches to Texcoco.”

The Speaker-King rose from where he was sitting on his reed
iqpalli
, a legless wickerwork chair. He went into a side chamber to meet his visitor.

Ordering refreshment to be brought, he greeted the old man, then took a place across from him. From a tangle of matted gray-white hair and scraggly beard, two sharp eyes peered out at him. Wise Coyote felt his hopes lift. Too often had he admitted old wanderers into his chambers only to find that the revelations they had promised were empty senile cackles or repetitions of legends that Wise Coyote already knew. This one might be different.

“Word has gone out that you wish to know about the ways of the Magicians of the eastern jungle,” the old man said.

Wise Coyote leaned forward eagerly. He studied the man’s features, wondering if he perhaps saw a trace of the pursed mouth, the elongated eyes of the statuette. He decided that it must be his imagination. “Speak what you know,” he said softly.

The gaze on him was steady, with a depth that made him feel uncomfortable despite the difference in status between him and the old man.

“Once I was a scholar, just as you,” his visitor began. “Now I am a wanderer and a tale-teller. I seek out stories that are worthy of being joined to lives and lives that are worthy of being joined to stories. Some stories and lives should join, some should not.” He winked. “This is a warning, noble tlatoani.”

Inwardly Wise Coyote groaned. Another one who wandered not only with his feet, but in his head. “I am not seeking stories,” he said, trying to keep from expressing his impatience.

“Is not all truth a tale and all tales expressions of truth? Some stones you can listen to and then go back to your life, but some you cannot. What is your intent, Wise One of Texcoco.”

The tlatoani bit back a sharp reply. It was not just impertinence in the old man’s words. He was asking if Wise Coyote intended to act on the knowledge he would be given or whether he would just write it in a manuscript and store it in his library.

He felt as if he were taking a step over a strange threshold as he said, “My life is filled with disquiet. If what you tell me opens a new path, I will follow it.”