There were numerous other obstacles beyond the black river, but those Ahuítzotl would have to surmount on his own. He would have to pass between two huge mountains that, at unpredictable intervals, suddenly leaned and ground together. He would have to climb another mountain composed entirely of flesh-cutting obsidian chips. He would have to make his way through an almost impenetrable forest of flagpoles, where the waving banners would obscure the path and flap in his face to blind and confuse him; and then through a region of ceaseless rainfall, every raindrop an arrowhead. In between those places he would have to fight or dodge lurking snakes and alligators and jaguars, all eager to eat out his heart.
If and when he prevailed, he would come at last to Míctlan, where its ruling lord and lady awaited his arrival. There he would take from his mouth the jadestone with which he had been buried—if he had not been cowardly enough to scream and lose it somewhere along the way. When he handed the stone to Míctlantecútli and Míctlancíuatl, that lord and lady would smile in welcome and point him toward the afterworld he deserved, where he would live in luxury and bliss forever after.
It was very late in the afternoon when the priests finished their instructive and farewell prayers, and Ahuítzotl was seated in his grave with the yellow-red dog beside him, and the earth was piled in and tamped hard, and the simple stone covering was laid over it by the attending masons. It was dark when our fleet of acáltin docked again on Tenochtítlan, where we regrouped our procession as before, to march again to The Heart of the One World. The plaza was by then empty of the crowd of city folk, but we of the retinue had to stay in our respectful ranks while the priests said still more prayers from the torch-lighted top of the Great Pyramid, and burned special incense in urn fires about the plaza, and then ceremoniously escorted the rag-clad, barefooted Motecuzóma into the temple of Tezcatlipóca, Smoldering Mirror.
I should mention that the choice of that god’s temple was of no special significance. Though Tezcatlipóca was regarded in Texcóco and some other places as the highest of gods, he was rather less glorified in Tenochtítlan. It simply happened that that temple was the only one in the plaza which had its own walled courtyard. As soon as Motecuzóma stepped into the yard, the priests closed its door behind him. For four nights and days, the chosen Revered Speaker would stay there alone, fasting and thirsting and meditating, being sun-burned or rain-sodden as the weather gods chose, sleeping on the courtyard’s uncushioned hard stone, only at specified intervals going into the shelter of the temple to pray—to all the gods, one after another—for guidance in the office upon which he would shortly enter.
The rest of us tramped wearily off toward our several palaces or guest lodgings or homes or barracks, grateful that we would not have to dress up and endure another day-long ceremony until Motecuzóma emerged from his retreat.
I dragged my heavy, taloned sandals up my front steps and, if I had not been so fatigued, I would have evinced some surprise when Ticklish, not Turquoise, opened the door to me. A solitary wick lamp burned in the entry hall.
I said, “It is very late. Surely Cocóton has long been safely tucked in bed. Why have you and Cozcatl not gone home?”
“Cozcatl has gone to Texcóco on school business. As soon as there was an acáli free after the funeral, he engaged it to take him over there. So I was glad of the opportunity to spend the extra time with my—with your daughter. Turquoise is preparing your steam room and bath.”
“Good,” I said. “Well, let me call Star Singer to light your way home, and I will hurry to bed, so the servants can lay out their own pallets.”
“Wait,” she said nervously. “I do not want to go.” Her normally light-copper face had flushed to a very ruddy copper, as if the hall’s wick lamp were not behind her but inside her. “Cozcatl cannot be home again before tomorrow night at the earliest. Tonight I would like you to take me into your bed, Mixtli.”
“What is this?” I said, pretending not to comprehend. “Is something wrong at home, Ticklish?”
“Yes, and you know what it is!” Her color heightened still more. “I am twenty and six years old, I have been married for more than five years, and I have yet to know a man!”
I said, “Cozcatl is as much a man as any I have ever met.”
“Please, Mixtli, do not be deliberately dense,” she entreated. “You know very well what it is I have not had.”
I said, “If it will ease your sense of deprivation, I have reason to believe that our new Revered Speaker is almost as badly impaired in that respect as is your husband Cozcatl.”
“That is hard to believe,” she said. “As soon as Motecuzóma was appointed to the regency, he took two wives.”
“Then presumably they are almost as unsatisfied as you seem to be.”
Ticklish impatiently shook her head. “Obviously he is adequate enough to make his wives pregnant. They each have an infant child. And that is more than I can hope for! If I were the Revered Speaker’s woman, I could at least bear a child. But I did not come here on behalf of Motecuzóma’s wives. I do not give a little finger for Motecuzóma’s wives!”
I snapped, “Neither do I! But I commend them for staying in their own connubial beds and not besieging mine!”
“Do not be cruel, Mixtli,” she said. “If only you knew what this has cost me. Five years, Mixtli! Five years of submitting and pretending to be satisfied. I have prayed and made offerings to Xochiquétzal, begging that she help me to be content with the attentions of my husband. It does no good. All the time I suffer the curiosity. What is it really like, for a real man and woman? The wondering and the temptation and the indecision, and finally this abasement of asking for it.”
“So you ask me, of all men, to betray my best friend. To put myself and my best friend’s wife at risk of the garrotte.”
“I ask you because you are his friend. You will never drop sly hints, as another man might do. Even if Cozcatl should somehow find out, he loves both you and me too much to denounce us.” She paused, then added, “If Cozcatl’s best friend will not do this, then he does Cozcatl a terrible disservice. I tell you true. If you refuse me, I will not humiliate myself further by approaching anyone else of our acquaintance. I will hire a man for a night. I will solicit some stranger in a hostel. Think what that would do to Cozcatl.”
I thought. And I remembered his saying once that if this woman would not have him, he would somehow make an end to his own life. I believed him then, and I believed also that he would do the same if ever he learned of her betraying him.
I said, “All other considerations aside, Ticklish, I am so fatigued at this moment that I would be of no use to any woman. You have waited five years. You can wait until I have bathed and slept. And you say we have all day tomorrow. Go to your home now, and think further on this matter. If then you are still determined …”
“I will be, Mixtli. And I will come here again tomorrow.”
I summoned Star Singer, and he lit a torch, and he and Ticklish went off into the night. I was undressed and had steamed myself and was in my bathing basin when I heard him come back to the house. I could easily have fallen asleep in the bath, but the water got so chilly as to force me out. I lurched into my chamber, fell onto the bed and dragged the top quilt over me, and fell asleep without even bothering to blow out the wick lamp Turquoise had lighted.
But, even in my heavy sleep, I must have been half anticipating and half dreading the impetuous return of the impatient Ticklish, for my eyes opened when the bedroom door did. The lamp had burned low and feeble, but there was a grayness of first dawn at the window, and what I saw made my hair prickle on my head.
I had heard no noise from downstairs to give me warning of the unexpected and unbelievable apparition—and surely Turquoise or Star Singer would have uttered a shriek if either of them had glimpsed that particular wraith. Though she was dressed for traveling, in a head shawl and a heavy over-mantle of rabbit skins, though the light was dim, though my hand shook when I raised the topaz to my eye … i
t was Zyanya I saw standing there!
“Záa,” she breathed in a whisper but with audible delight, and it was Zyanya’s voice. “You are not asleep, Záa.”
But I was sure I must be. I was seeing the impossible, and I had never done that before, except in my dreams.
“I only meant to look in. I did not wish to disturb you,” she said, still whispering; keeping her voice low to lessen the shock for me, I supposed.
I tried to speak and could not, an experience I had also had in dreams.
“I will go to the other chamber,” she said. She began to unwind the shawl, and she did it slowly, as if she were tired from having traveled an unimaginably long, long way. I thought of the barriers—the mountains gnashing together, the black river in black night—and I shuddered.
“When you got the message of my coming,” she said, “I hope you did not wait sleepless for my arrival.” Her words made no sense, until the cowl of shawl came off, disclosing black hair without the distinctive white streak. Béu Ribé went on, “Of course, I would be flattered to think that the word of my coming excited you to sleeplessness. I would be pleased if you were that eager to see me.”
I found my voice at last, and it was harsh. “I received no message! How dare you come stealthily into my house like this? How dare you pretend—?” But I choked there; I could not fairly accuse her of resembling her late sister on purpose.
She seemed genuinely taken aback, and she stammered as she tried to explain. “But I sent a boy … I gave him a cacao bean to bring the word. Did he not, then? But downstairs … Star Singer greeted me cordially. And I find you awake, Záa….”
I growled, “Star Singer once before invited me to beat him. This time I shall oblige.”
There was a short silence. I was waiting for my heart to abate its wild beating of mingled astonishment, alarm, and joy. Béu seemed overcome with embarrassment and self-reproach at her intrusion. At last she said, almost meekly for her, “I will go and sleep in the room I occupied before. Perhaps tomorrow … you will be less angry that I am here….” And she was gone from the room before I could say anything in rejoinder.
For a brief while in the morning, I had a respite from the feeling that I was being beleaguered by women. I was alone at breakfast, except for the two slaves serving it to me, and I began the day by snarling, “I do not much enjoy surprises in the dawn hours.”
“Surprises, master?” said Turquoise, bewildered.
“The lady Béu’s unannounced arrival.”
She said, sounding even more nonplussed, “The lady Béu is here? In the house?”
“Yes,” Star Singer put in. “It was a surprise to me too, master. But I supposed you had merely forgotten to inform us.”
It transpired that Béu’s messenger boy never had come to advise the household of her imminent arrival. The first that Star Singer had known of it was his being awakened by noises outside the street door. Turquoise had slept through that, but he had roused himself to let the visitor in, and had been told by her not to disturb me.
“Since the lady Waiting Moon arrived with a number of porters,” he said, “I assumed she was expected.” That explained why he had not been confronted by a seeming wraith and mistaken her for Zyanya, as I had done. “She said I was not to wake you or make any noise, that she of course knew her way about upstairs. Her porters brought quite a lot of luggage, master. I had all the packs and panniers stacked in the front room.”
Well, at least I could be thankful that neither of the servants had witnessed my perturbation at Béu’s sudden appearance, and that Cocóton had not been awakened and frightened, so I made no more fuss about it. I went on peaceably taking my breakfast—but not for long. Star Singer, apparently fearful of risking my anger at any new surprises, came to announce with all formality that I had another visitor and that this one he had admitted no farther than the front door. Knowing who it must be, I sighed, finished my chocolate, and went to the entrance.
“Will not anyone even invite me inside?” Ticklish said archly. “This is a very public spot, Mixtli, for what we—”
“What we must forget we ever talked about,” I interrupted her. “My late wife’s sister has come for a visit. You remember Béu Ribé.”
Ticklish looked momentarily disconcerted. Then she said, “Well, if not here, you could come with me now to our house.”
I said, “Really, my dear. It is Béu’s first visit in three years. It would be exceedingly discourteous of me to leave her, and exceedingly difficult to explain.”
“But Cozcatl will be home tonight!” she wailed.
“Then I fear we have lost our opportunity.”
“We must make another!” she said desperately. “How can we arrange another, Mixtli, and when?”
“Probably never,” I said, unsure whether to feel regretful or relieved that the delicate situation had been resolved without my having to resolve it. “From now on, there will simply be too many eyes and ears. We cannot elude them all. You had best forget—”
“You knew she was coming!” Ticklish blazed. “You only pretended weariness last night, just to put me off until you had a real excuse for refusing!”
“Believe what you will,” I said, with weariness that was not at all pretended. “But I must refuse.”
She seemed to slump and deflate before me. With her eyes averted she said quietly, “You were a friend to me for a long time, and to my husband even longer. But it is an unfriendly thing you do now, Mixtli. To both of us.” And she walked slowly down the stairs to the street, and slowly away along the street.
Cocóton was at breakfast when I went back inside. So I found Star Singer, invented for him a totally unnecessary errand at the Tlaltelólco market, and suggested that he take the girl with him. As soon as she had finished eating, they went off together, and I waited, not very gleefully, for Béu to appear. The confrontation with Ticklish had not been easy for me, but at least it had been brief; with Waiting Moon I could not deal so summarily. She slept late and did not come downstairs until midday, her face puffy and creased from slumber. I sat across the dining cloth opposite her and, when Turquoise had served her and retired to the kitchen, I said:
“I am sorry I received you so gruffly, sister Béu. I am unaccustomed to such early visitors, and my manners are not at their best until some considerable while after dawn, and of all possible visitors I least expected you. May I inquire why you are here?”
She looked unbelieving, almost shocked. “You need ask, Záa? Among the Cloud People our family ties are strong and binding. I thought I could be of help, of use, even of comfort to my own sister’s widower and the motherless child.”
I said, “As for the widower, I have been abroad ever since Zyanya died. And so far, at least, I have survived my bereavement. As for Cocóton, she has been well tended during those same two years. My friends Cozcatl and Quequelmíqui have been a loving Tete and Tene.” I added drily, “During those two years, your solicitude was nowhere in evidence.”
“And whose fault is that?” she demanded hotly. “Why could you not have sent a swift-messenger to tell me of the tragedy? It was not until a year ago that your wrinkled and dirt-smudged letter was casually handed to me by a passing trader. My sister had been dead more than a year before I even knew of it! And then it took me the better part of another year to find a buyer for my inn, and to arrange all the details of its transfer, and to prepare for moving myself permanently to Tenochtítlan. Then we heard that the Revered Speaker Ahuítzotl was weakening and soon to die, meaning that our Bishósu Kosi Yuela would of course attend the ceremonies here. So I waited until I could travel in his retinue, for convenience and protection. But I stopped in Coyohuácan, not wanting to breast the crush of people here in the city during the funeral. That was where I gave the boy a bean to come and tell you I would soon be here. It was not until near dawn this morning that I could procure porters for my luggage. I apologize for the time and manner of my arrival, but …”
She had to pause for
breath and I, feeling quite ashamed of myself, said sincerely, “It is I who should apologize, Béu. You have come at the best possible moment. The parents I borrowed for Cocóton have had to return to their own affairs. So the child has only me, and I am dismally inexperienced as a father. When I say you are welcome here, I am not merely mouthing a formality. As a substitute mother for my daughter, you are surely the next best to Zyanya herself.”
“The next best,” she said, without showing great enthusiasm for the compliment.
“For one thing,” I said, “you can bring her up to speak the Lóochi language as fluently as our Náhuatl. You can bring her up to be as mannerly a child as the many I have admired among your Cloud People. Indeed, you should be the one person who can bring her up to be all the things Zyanya was. You will be devoting your life to a very good deed. This world will be the better when it has another Zyanya.”
“Another Zyanya. Yes.”
I concluded, “You are to regard this as your home from now forever, and the child your ward, and the slaves yours to command. I will give orders this moment that your room be totally emptied and scoured clean and refurnished to your taste. Whatever else you need or desire, sister Béu, you have only to speak, not ask.” It seemed she was about to say something, but changed her mind. I said, “And now … here comes the Small Crumb herself, home from the market.”
The little girl entered the room, radiant in a light mantle of sunshine yellow. She looked long at Béu Ribé, and tilted her head as if trying to recollect where she had seen that face before. I do not know if she realized that she had seen it often in mirrors.
“Will you not speak?” said Béu, her own voice breaking slightly. “I have waited so long….”
Cocóton said shyly, tentatively, breathlessly, “Tene …?”
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