He pointed to the sky, and I raised my crystal to peer upward, and I grunted involuntarily when I saw the thing. I had never seen one before; I probably would never have noticed that one if my weak eyes had not been directed to it; but I recognized it as what we called a smoking star. You Spaniards call it a hairy star, or a comet. It was really quite pretty—like a luminous little tuft of down snagged among the ordinary stars—but of course I knew it was to be regarded with dread, as a sure precursor of evil.
“The court astronomers first espied it a month ago,” said Motecuzóma, “when it was too small to have been seen by an untrained eye. It has appeared in the same place in the sky every night since, but ever growing larger and brighter. Many of our people will not venture out of their houses at night, and even the boldest make sure their children stay indoors, safe from its baleful light.”
I said, “So the smoking star impels my lord to seek communion with the gods of this sacred city?”
He sighed and said, “No. Or not entirely. That apparition is troubling enough, but I have not yet spoken of the even more recent and more dire omen. You know, of course, that the chief god of this city Teotihuácan was the Feathered Serpent, and that it has long been believed that he and his Toltéca would eventually come back to reclaim these lands.”
“I know the old tales, Lord Speaker. Quetzalcóatl built some sort of magical raft, and drifted away across the eastern sea, vowing to return some day.”
“And do you remember, Knight Mixtli, some three years ago, when you and I and the Lord Speaker Nezahualpíli of Texcóco discussed a drawing on a piece of paper brought from the Maya lands?”
“Yes, my lord,” I said uneasily, not much liking to be reminded of it. “A house of great size floating upon the sea.”
“Upon the eastern sea,” he stressed. “In the drawing, the floating house appeared to have occupants. You and Nezahualpíli called them men. Strangers. Outlanders.”
“I remember, my lord. Were we mistaken in calling them strangers? Do you mean the drawing represented the returning Quetzalcóatl? Bringing his Toltéca back from the dead?”
“I do not know,” he said, with uncommon humility. “But I have just had report that one of those floating houses appeared again off the Maya coast, and it turned over in the sea, like a house toppling sideways in an earthquake, and two of its occupants were washed ashore, nearly dead. If there were others in that house, they must have drowned. But those two survivors came alive after a while, and are now living in some village called Tiho. Its chief, a man named Ah Tutal, sent a swift-messenger to ask of me what to do with them, for he asserts that they are gods, and he is unaccustomed to entertaining gods. At any rate, not living and visible and palpable gods.”
I had listened in growing astonishment. I blurted, “Well, my lord? Are they gods?”
“I do not know,” he said again. “The message was typical of Maya ineptitude—so hysterical and incoherent that I cannot tell even whether those two are male or female—or one of each, like the Lord and Lady Pair. But the description, such as it is, described no man or woman of my experience. Inhumanly white of skin, exceedingly hairy of face and body, speaking a language incomprehensible even to the wisest of the wise men thereabouts. Surely gods would look and talk differently than we do, would they not?”
I thought about it and finally said, “I should suppose that gods can assume any appearance they choose. And speak any human tongue, if they really wish to communicate. One thing I find hard to believe is that gods could capsize their traveling house and half drown themselves, like any clumsy boatmen. But what have you advised that chief, Lord Speaker?”
“First, to remain silent until we can ascertain what sort of beings they are. Second, to ply them with the best food and drink, with all manner of comforts, with companionship of the opposite sex if they desire it, so that they may rest content in Tiho. Third, and most important, to keep them there, well enclosed, unseen by more eyes than have seen them already, to keep their existence as little known as possible. The apathetic Maya may not be unduly excited by this occurrence. But if the news gets out among more discerning and sensitive peoples, it could cause turmoil, and I do not want that.”
“I have visited Tiho,” I said. “It is more than a village, quite a respectable town in size, and its inhabitants are the Xiu people, considerably superior to most other remnants of the Maya. I expect they will comply, Lord Speaker. That they will keep the matter secret.”
In the moonlight I could see Motecuzóma turn in my direction, and his head inclined sharply toward me as he said, “You speak the Maya languages.”
“That Xiu dialect, yes, my lord. Passably.”
“And you are quick with other exotic languages.” He went on before I could comment, but he seemed to speak to himself. “I came to Teotihuácan, the city of Quetzalcóatl, hoping that he or some other god might give me a sign. Some indication of how I should best contend with this situation. And what do I find at Teotihuácan?” He laughed, though the laughter sounded strained, and he addressed me again. “You could atone for many past derelictions, Knight Mixtli, if you were to volunteer to do a thing beyond the capabilities of other men, even the highest priests of men. If you were to be the emissary of the Mexíca—of all mankind—our emissary to the gods.”
He said the last words facetiously, as if of course he disbelieved them, though we were both aware that they were not entirely beyond belief. The idea was breathtaking: that I might be the first man ever to talk—not harangue, as the priests did, or confer by some mystic means—but really talk with beings who perhaps were not human, who perhaps were something eminently greater than human. That I might speak words to and hear words spoken by … yes … the gods. …
But at that moment I could not speak at all, and Motecuzóma laughed again, at my speechlessness. He got to his feet, upright on the pyramid summit, and he leaned down to clap me on the shoulder, and he said cheerfully, “Too weak to say yes or no, Knight Mixtli? Well, my servants should have a hearty meal ready by now. Come be my guest and let me feed your resolve.”
So we cautiously picked our way down a moonlit side of The Pyramid of the Sun, a descent almost as difficult as the climb, and we walked south along The Avenue of the Dead to the campground—overlooked by the third and least of Teotihuácan’s pyramids—where fires were burning, cooking was being done, and mosquito-netted pallets were being laid out by the hundred or so servants, priests, knights, and other courtiers who had accompanied Motecuzóma. We were met there by the high priest whom I remembered as having officiated at the New Fire ceremony some five years before. He gave me only a passing glance, and started to say, with pompous importance:
“Lord Speaker, for tomorrow’s petitions to the old gods of this place, I suggest first a ritual of—”
“Do not bother,” Motecuzóma interrupted him. “There is now no need for pretentious petitions. We will return to Tenochtítlan as soon as we wake tomorrow.”
“But, my lord,” the priest protested. “After coming all the way out here, with all your retinue and august guests …”
“Sometimes the gods volunteer their blessing before it is even asked,” said Motecuzóma, and he threw an equivocal look at me. “Of course, we may never be sure if it is given seriously or only in mocking jest.”
So he and I sat down to eat, among a circle of his palace guardsmen and other knights, many of whom recognized and greeted me. Although I was disreputably ragged, dirty, and out of place in that gaudily feathered and jeweled assemblage, the Uey-Tlatoáni directed me to the pillowed seat of honor on the ground at his right. While we ate, and while I tried heroically to moderate my voracity, the Lord Speaker spoke at some length about my forthcoming “mission to the gods.” He suggested questions I should ask of them, when I had mastered their language, and what questions of theirs I might prudently avoid answering. I waited for him to be silenced by a mouthful of grilled quail, and then I ventured to say:
“My lord, I would make on
e request. May I rest at home for at least a short time before I set out traveling again? I started this last journey in all the vigor of my manhood’s prime, but I confess that I feel as if I have come home in the age of never.”
“Ah, yes,” the Lord Speaker said understandingly. “No need to apologize; it is the common fate of man. We all come at last to the ueyquin ayquic.”
From your expressions, reverend scribes, I take it that you do not comprehend the meaning of the ueyquin ayquic, “the age of never.” No, no, my lords, it does not signify an age of any specific number of years. It comes early to some people, later to others. Considering that I was then forty and five years old, well into my middle years, I had eluded its clutch for longer than most men. The ueyquin ayquic is the age when a man begins to mutter to himself, “Ayya, the hills never seemed so steep before …” or “Ayya, my back never used to give me these twinges of pain …” or “Ayya, I never found a gray hair in my head before now….”
That is the age of never.
Motecuzóma went on, “By all means, Knight Mixtli, take time to recover your strength before you go south. And this time you will not go afoot or alone. An appointed emissary of the Mexíca must go in pomp, especially when he is to confer with gods. I will provide for you a stately litter and strong bearers and an armed escort, and you will wear your richest Eagle Knight regalia.”
As we prepared to bed down, by the combined light of the setting moon and the dying campfires, Motecuzóma called for one of his swift-messengers. He gave instructions to the man, and the runner immediately set off for Tenochtítlan, to take word to my household of my impending return. It was thoughtful of the Speaker to do that, and it was well intentioned, so that my servants and my wife Béu Ribé should have time to prepare a fitting reception for my homecoming. But the actual effect of that reception was nearly to kill me, and then to make me nearly kill Béu.
I made my way through the streets of Tenochtítlan at the next midday. Because I was as unprepossessing as any beggar leper, and almost as immodestly exposed as a genital-proud Huaxtécatl, the passing people either made a wide circuit around me or ostentatiously drew their mantles close to avoid brushing against me. But when I reached my home quarter of Ixacuálco I began to meet remembered neighbors, and they greeted me civilly enough. Then I saw my own house, and its mistress standing in the open door at the top of the street stairs, and I raised my topaz for a look at her, and I almost fell at that moment, right there in the street. It was Zyanya waiting for me.
She stood in the bright light of day, dressed only in blouse and skirt, her lovely head bare—and the unique, the beautiful white streak was clearly visible in her flowing black hair. The shock of the illusion was like the shock of a blow that deranged all my body’s senses and organs. I suddenly seemed to be looking out from underwater, from inside a whirlpool; the street’s houses and people moved in circles about me. My throat constricted, and my breath would go neither in nor out. My heart bounded first in joy, then in frenzied protest at the strain; it hammered even harder than it had lately done during strenuous hill climbs. I tottered and groped for the support of a nearby torch-lamp post.
“Záa!” she cried, catching hold of me. I had not seen her come running. “Are you wounded? Are you ill?”
“Are you really Zyanya?” I managed to say, in a thin voice squeezed out through my tightened throat. The street had darkened in my sight, but I could still see the gleam of that strand of her hair.
“My dear!” was all she replied. “My dear … old … Záa …” and she held me close against her soft, warm bosom.
I said what seemed obvious to my addled mind, “Then you are not here. I am there.” I laughed for sheer happiness at being dead. “You have waited for me all this time … on the nearmost border of the far country….”
“No, no, you are not dead,” she crooned. “You are only weary. And I was thoughtless. I should have saved the surprise.”
“Surprise?” I said. My vision was clearing and steadying, and I lifted my eyes from her breast to her face. It was Zyanya’s face, and it was beautiful beyond the beauty of all other women, but it was not my remembered Zyanya at twenty. The face was as old as mine, and the dead do not age. Somewhere Zyanya was still young, and Cozcatl was younger yet, and old Blood Glutton was still lustily ageless, and my daughter Nochípa would forever be a child of twelve. Only I, Dark Cloud, was left in this world, to endure the ever darker and cloudier age of never.
Béu Ribé must have seen something frightful in my eyes. She let go of me and warily stepped backward. My heart’s wildness and the other symptoms of shock had ceased; I merely felt cold all over. I stood erect and I said grimly:
“This time you deliberately pretended. This time you did it on purpose.”
Continuing slowly to edge away from me, she said in a quaver, “I thought—I hoped it would please you. I thought, if your wife again looked the way you had loved her …” When her voice trailed away in a whisper, she cleared her throat to say, “Záa, you know the one and only visible difference between us was her hair.”
I said through my teeth, “The only difference!” and I took from my shoulder my empty leather water bag.
Béu went on desperately, “So last night, when the messenger told of your return, I made lime water and I bleached just this one lock. I thought you might … accept me … for a while at least….”
“I could have died!” I gritted. “And I gladly would have done. But not for you! I promise, this will be the last of your cursed trickeries and sorceries and indignities heaped upon me.”
I had the straps of the leather bag in my right hand. With my left, I lunged to seize her wrist, and I twisted it so she sprawled on the earth.
Absurdly, she cried, “Záa, there is white in your own hair now!”
Our neighbors and some other folk were standing along the street, and they had been simpering to see my wife run to embrace the traveler come home. They stopped that fond smiling when I began to beat her. I truly do think I would have done her to death if I had had the strength and the endurance. But I was weary, as she had remarked, and I was not young, as she had also remarked.
Even so, the flailing leather ripped her light clothing to ribbons, and then scattered the scraps, so that she lay there naked except for a few remaining rags around her neck. Her body of honeyed copper, which could have been Zyanya’s body, was striped with vivid red welts, but my strength had not been sufficient to break her skin and draw blood. When I could whip no more, she had fainted from the pain. I left her lying there naked to the gaze of all who cared to look, and I staggered to my house stairs, myself half dead again.
The old woman Turquoise, older yet, was peeking fearfully from the door. I had no voice to speak; I could only gesture for her to see to her mistress. Somehow I made my way up the stairs to the upper floor of the house. Only one bedchamber had been made ready: the one that had been mine and Zyanya’s. Its bed was piled high with soft quilts, the top one invitingly turned down on both sides. I cursed, and lurched into the spare chamber, and with great effort unrolled the quilts stored there, and let myself fall limply face forward onto them. I fell into sleep as sometime I will fall into death and into Zyanya’s arms.
I slept until the middle of the next day, and old Turquoise was hovering anxiously outside my door when I awoke. The door to the main bedchamber was closed, and no sound came from beyond it. I did not inquire into Béu’s condition. I commanded Turquoise to heat water for my bath trough and stones for my steam closet, and to lay out clean clothes for me, and then to start cooking and not to stop until I gave the order. When I had finally had enough of alternate steaming and soaking, and had dressed, I went downstairs and all by myself ate and drank enough for three men.
As the servant was setting down the second platter and perhaps the third jug of chocolate, I told her, “I shall be wanting all the apparel and armor and other accessories of my Eagle Knight garb. When you are finished serving, please get them from w
herever they are stored, and see that they are freshly aired, that all the feathers are preened, that all is in perfect order. But right now, send Star Singer to me.”
In a tremulous old voice, she said, “I regret to tell you, master, but Star Singer died of the cold of last winter.”
I said I was sorry to hear that. “Then you must do the errand, Turquoise, before you attend to my wardrobe and regalia. You will go to the palace—”
She recoiled and gasped, “I, master? To the palace? Why, the guards would not let me near the great door!”
“Tell them you come from me and they will,” I said impatiently. “You are to speak a message to the Uey-Tlatoáni and to no one else.”
She gasped again, “To the Uey—!”
“Hush, woman! You are to tell him this. Memorize it. Just this. ‘The Lord Speaker’s emissary requires no more rest. Dark Cloud is prepared to start upon his mission as soon as the Lord Speaker can make ready the escort.’”
And so, without seeing Waiting Moon again, I went off to meet the waiting gods.
I H S
S. C. C. M.
Sanctified, Caesarean, Catholic Majesty,
the Emperor Don Carlos, Our Lord King:
MOST High Majesty, Preeminent among Princes: from this City of Mexíco, capital of New Spain, this eve of Corpus Christi in the year of Our Lord one thousand five hundred thirty and one, greeting.
We write this with woe and anger and contrition. In our last letter, we expressed our elation at our Sovereign’s sage observation regarding the possible—nay, the seemingly irrefutable—resemblance between the Indians’ deity called Quetzalcóatl and our Christian St. Thomas. Alas, we must now, with chagrin and embarrassment, impart some bad news.
We hasten to say that no doubt has been cast upon Your Most Benevolent Majesty’s brilliant theory per se. But we must tell you that your devoted chaplain was overly impetuous in adducing evidence to support that hypothesis.
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