by Zoe Saadia
He saw the Aztec passing by, his face drawn, eyes blazing, lips clasped tight.
“We’ll keep moving behind those rocks. Maybe those would spread for long enough to bring us to the end of this pass.” He shook his head briskly, going from wounded to wounded. “Come on! Get up. You can walk pretty well. Look at this kid with an arrow in his back and looking like nothing happened.” He winked at Kuini, then turned around and peeked behind the rocks once again. A long, loud expletive escaped his lips. “All right. Change of plan,” he said finally. “Looks like we are to make our stand here.” He shrugged. “Well, let us show them what the elite jaguar warriors can do, even if trapped.”
He went between his men, organizing those still capable of fighting.
“No need to keep back to back,” he said cheerfully. “Those cliffs will do. And no need to keep those gloomy faces. The flowery fields of the eastern sky would welcome us most readily. Think of this beautiful place, the tranquility. But before that, fight like wild jaguars. Don’t give up until there is no trace of strength left in your body, until the last heartbeat, the last drop of blood. Remember that only real warriors can reach the eastern sky’s paradise.” His gaze brushed past Kuini, lingering. “Come.” He nodded and headed toward the opposite edge of the rocks.
Swaying a little, Kuini followed.
“Listen, kid,” said the man when well away from the hearing range. “You did your best, and I’m grateful for that. Now, go away. Climb those rocks and be off. Can you do that with this stupid arrow? You seem to be able to walk pretty well.”
Having difficulty breathing, Kuini stared at the broad face covered in dust and sweat, taking in the strong cheekbones, the generous mouth, the dark, well spaced eyes that, even now, could not hide that light twinkle. He swallowed, his throat dry. This man was going to die, and he was not suppose to feel sorry, but somehow his heart pounded wildly, and he could not just go away.
“I can’t,” he whispered.
The full lips twisted into a familiar, mischievous grin. “What’s wrong with you, kid?” The man laughed. “Those are your people out there. We are just a bunch of intruders, and no one will miss us, not in your part of the land.” The warm palm rested upon his shoulder, giving him strength. “Climb this cliff and wait for this battle to be over. Then go to your people. You’ll make a great warrior one day. A great warrior and a great leader. Trust me. I’ve seen enough young men to be able to tell. But now go. We’ll meet in the eastern sky paradise one day.”
Breath caught, Kuini stared at the man for another heartbeat, then turned around and peeked onto the dusted road. The warriors were nearer now, strolling ahead confidently. He could see their painted faces, their combed oily hair. Through these recent days he’d grown so accustomed to the shaved heads and the warriors’ locks of the Lowlanders, he found it strange to watch his people’s unshaved skulls. He thought he had recognized the short, dominant figure in a headdress walking ahead, leading them.
“My father will be the one leading them,” he said. “I’ll go and talk to him.”
A hand grabbed his left, unharmed shoulder. “No!”
He shook it off, without turning back. Taking a deep breath, he walked out, praying to the gods he would make it as far as them without losing his strength. To fall in the middle of the road, between the two fighting forces, would be embarrassing, he thought randomly, heart beating fast. He noticed he was still carrying the sword, now clasped in his left arm. It seemed heavier than before and unnecessary, yet he could not drop it just like that. Not with the Aztec watching.
The road stretched ahead, long and twisted. The attacking Highlanders were still far away. He could hear their voices, but barely. However, the voices to his right carried more clearly through the dusted air. It took him an effort to turn his head, to glance at the cliff and the archers and slingers upon it. The pain in his shoulder grew.
“Don’t shoot!” he cried out, finding it curiously strange to talk in his own tongue now. He had no strength to raise either of his arms, one wounded and the other burdened by the sword. It would take too much of his precious energy, anyway. Yet, they must have heard him as no arrows came.
The Highlanders were closer now. They slowed their pace and watched him, apparently undecided. He could see their faces, their paint running in the midmorning heat. He tried to recognize them, but his eyes were blurry, head spinning and empty of thoughts. He fought the urge to lean on the sword.
Someone shouted. A figure parted from the crowd of the painted faces. Paces long and urgent, the man rushed forward, covering the distance in a few long leaps. He felt strong hands grabbing his shoulders and almost sighed with relief, leaning against the familiar powerful arm. He blinked as Father’s narrow, sun-burned face swam into his view, the man’s eyes wide open, enormously large in the strong wrinkled face, mouth gaping. Oh, the formidable leader of the warriors looked unbecomingly surprised. Kuini wanted to laugh.
“What are you doing here?” gasped Father.
“I… I can explain.”
He saw the large eyes filling with amusement, so very familiar by now.
“He can explain,” said Father to the warriors, who had surrounded them. The man chuckled. “I’m sure that story would be entertaining enough.” He straightened up, sobering. “Take him back there and see what can be done with that arrow of his. But wait for the healer if it’s stuck too deeply.” He frowned. “On second thought, just make him rest until we are back. Come on. Let us finish with those arrogant dung-eaters first.”
Kuini listened, surprised with the effort it took him to understand. He had heard nothing but Lowlanders’ Nahuatl for the past days, and it felt strange to listen to his people’s tongue once again.
“Father, wait!”
The man turned around impatiently, but something in his son’s face had probably caught his attention. The large eyes narrowed.
“Please,” Kuini licked his lips, heart pounding in his ears. He straightened up, swayed a little, clutched his fists tight. “Please, don’t attack them.”
“What?” The narrow jaw tightened as the man’s gaze hardened.
Kuini swallowed. “Please, those people, they did not invade here, they didn’t come to fight. I brought them here to avoid some of the Lowlanders’ roads. They didn’t mean to come here.” He swallowed again, but it brought no relief. His mouth was so dry, he could feel the sides of his throat clinging to each other. “Please, let them go.”
The warriors around them went silent. He could see their faces staring at him, astounded, their displeasure open.
His Father’s face closed. “Take him back,” he said curtly. “Take care of his wounds.”
He fought the grip upon his arm, ignoring the pain exploding in his shoulder and his back.
“Father!” he said stepping onto the man’s path. “If you attack them, I’m going back there.”
His father’s large eyes flashed, boring into him. The air hissed, coming through the clenched teeth as the man took a deep breath. “If you want to go back, go back,” he said, voice hard, cutting like the sharpest obsidian. “If you want to fight with the enemies of your people, the enemies you led here for some reason, you are at liberty to do just that.”
He stared at the blackness of those wide-open eyes, seeing the rage and the frustration. His chest tightened. This man was his father, and he was a great leader and a great man. Why would he do this to him?
“Please, Father,” he said quietly. “I’ll go to them, but not because I want to betray my people. This Aztec Warlord… he saved my life… more than once. I owe it to him. I can’t let him die like that.” He swallowed again. “I’m sorry.”
He narrowed his eyes against the dizziness. It was difficult to see clearly. His father’s face was changing, or was it his imagination? He saw the clasped lips opening, the set jaw relaxing, the rage in the dark eyes retreating, giving way to an astounded, even somewhat frightened, expression.
The man took a convulsive br
eath. “The Aztec Warlord,” he repeated, licking his lips in his turn, eyes widening, flooding with… fear? “The Chief Warlord?”
“Yes,” mumbled Kuini.
The clasped lips parted with difficulty. “What’s his name?”
“I don’t know.”
“What does he look like?” It came out curtly, like an order. Was he now a prisoner to be tortured for information? He remembered that warrior from the previous night, and the knife slicing the man’s frightened face.
“I… What does it matter?”
“Tall? Broad shoulders?” continued his interrogator, oblivious of Kuini’s question.
“Yes.”
The man turned around abruptly. “Come with me!”
His dizziness growing, Kuini followed, glad to get away from the warriors, who’d also followed, hurrying after their leader. What was his father going to do? Would he thank the Aztec for saving his son’s life before killing him? Would he tell him everything he thought about Tenochtitlan and the filthy Aztecs and Tepanecs? Would he try to take him alive, a prisoner, such a prominent leader making a worthy sacrifice in the Sacred Grove’s temples? Yes, that must be it. Oh gods. He shouldn’t have tried to interfere. He’d made the matter so much worse.
“Stay here,” said Father curtly, addressing the warriors when the rocks and the people crouching behind were again clearly visible in the midday sun.
A few began arguing, but he silenced them with a short gesture of his hand. Alone and imposing, despite his lack of height, he proceeded down the road, the feathers of his headdress swaying lightly, almost calmly, in the strong breeze.
Kuini watched the wide back, his heart swelling with pride along with his mounting worry. How much strength, how much will-power. Oh, his father was a worthy rival to the formidable Aztec. Were they going to fight each other, hand-to-hand?
His chest tightened, and it made his dizziness worse. His shoulder pulsed with pain, coming in waves, each growing stronger. He let his sword rest against the ground, unable to hold its weight anymore. The temptation to lean on it was almost unbearable, yet he fought it, eyes on the rocks, a light mist blurring his vision.
He saw Father halting, standing there, in the middle of the road, legs wide apart.
“Come out, Chief Warlord of the Aztecs,” he cried out, and his voice rolled between the cliffs, strong and challenging.
Kuini saw the Aztec’s tall figure springing from behind the rocks, not waiting for another invitation. As imposing, as dignified, he strolled toward his rival unhurriedly, radiating power and no fear. Oh, this man had welcomed the challenge. One could be sure of that. Kuini could just imagine the derisive sparkle in those large, wide-spaced eyes.
Hardly noticing what he was doing, his legs took him closer, although it made the pain in his back so much worse, bringing more grayish mist to the corners of his eyes. Now he could see the Aztec more clearly, but what he saw in the familiar face made him gape. No derisive sparkle and no fierce challenge reflected in the dark eyes, now wide-open and growing larger and larger, almost popping out of their sockets. The broad face paled, the same almost frightened expression flooding it, the same expression Kuini had seen on his father’s face such a short time ago. The generous mouth opened and closed, but no sound came out. The man looked as if about to faint.
Kuini blinked, trying to make sense of what he saw.
“I told you not to venture anywhere near her people’s lands, oh Honorable Leader of the barbarian Aztecs,” he heard Father saying, and the man’s voice shook with laughter.
The Aztec’s eyes sparkled. He inhaled loudly, then shook his head too, his own mirth spilling. “I can’t believe it,” he said when able to speak. “Oh, I knew you would go far, but not that far, little brother.”
This time Kuini leaned on his sword, without noticing it. The sun seemed to grow stronger, making the grayish mist spread. He didn’t blink, didn’t try to banish it. It felt only natural now to slip onto the ground, to dive into the merciful fog, away from the sunlit world that did not make any sense.
Chapter 13
It was bright and relatively quiet, and he didn’t hurry to open his eyes, floating in the pleasant fogginess, allowing the waves to loll him back into sleep. He remembered surfacing and diving into this blissful obliviousness, hot and cold, and hot again. It was a strange feeling, but a calming one.
Yet, this time the fogginess dispersed before he had managed to go down. Almost sorry, he lay there, still refusing to open his eyes. His senses reached out, not anxious but calm, probing idly, unhurriedly. It was quiet outside, and he lay on something soft, but unpleasantly wet. As he realized that, he shuddered and opened his eyes, trying to sit up. The motion released much pain in his chest, or his back, he couldn’t tell. He gasped and gave up on the effort.
Peacefulness gone, he turned his head carefully, afraid to bring the pain back. The motion hurt, but bearably so. He narrowed his eyes against the light flickering in the far corner. The room was familiar. He knew were the torch was fastened; knew what the low table standing underneath it would hold. He had known this place since he was a small child, the wooden, one-story house of his father, with plenty of rooms and a large patio. The room he was laying in was his alone, since his four grown up brothers had moved into their own houses, starting families of their own.
He shifted again, carefully. Kicking away the wet blanket, he rolled onto his side, away from the pain, trying to push himself up using his hands only. It was a difficult task, and he was again covered with a sheen of perspiration before he managed to remain upright. Breathing heavily, he sat there, feeling victorious. The room swayed, but only a little.
He took his hand toward the source of the pain behind his right shoulder. It came back sticky with ointments. The smell hit his nostrils. Of course, he thought. Mother’s ointments would always stink to the skies. But they usually did the work. And so did her potions. He winced, remembering the bitter taste of the things he was made to drink when feverish. He had been made to drink those potions now too, he remembered vaguely. Between those bouts of sleepiness, when it became too cold.
So he was sick, he thought. Sick and wounded. The arrow in his back was to blame, of course. He frowned, the memories flooding in. He had been guiding the Aztecs through that stupid accursed pass, and then Father had been there and some fighting had ensued. Then Father was acting strange, and the Aztec was acting strange.
He pressed his lips together, refusing to think about it. Those last words of the Aztec. No, this could not be true. He must have been getting sick already with all the mist and the dizziness. His mind was already leaving for the other realms to roam, so he must have imagined the man saying what he had.
He looked up abruptly as the door creaked and hurried paces crossed the outer room. The small slender figure of his mother burst in, brisk and purposeful as always. She saw him sitting and gasped.
“Oh, you are back with us!” she cried out, not her usual reserved self. Rushing toward him, she brushed his tangled hair off his face, her palm lingering upon his forehead, feeling it out. “You made us worried,” she added with a smile, apparently satisfied with what her palm related to her.
“Sorry.” He smiled, liking her touch. “How long was I like that?”
“Oh, since they brought you in, almost three dawns.” She sat beside him. “You really worried all of us this time. First, you disappear for so many dawns, then, you are brought back with this arrow and all the other wounds, your mind elsewhere, your blood boiling.” Her palm reached out, brushed against his cheek, caressing. “Why would you do all these things?”
He shrugged, but it made the pain attack his chest anew. Biting his lips, he looked away.
Her hand moved up, caressing his hair. “Did you like it there in Texcoco?”
Afraid to shrug again, he just motioned with his head.
“You can tell me,” she insisted. “It’s a pretty place. I’ve been there once.”
He studied her face,
suspicious. “When?”
“Very, very long time ago. Thirty summers and more.”
“What did you do there?”
Her face darkened. “Nothing worth mentioning.” She looked at him searchingly, her large yellow eyes penetrating, as though looking into his soul. She was the priestess of the Great Obsidian Butterfly Goddess, her high priestess. The priestess with the yellow, cat-like, unsettling eyes. Many people feared her.
“There are some memories a person would prefer to forget,” she said. “Everyone’s life has secrets. Only that one person’s secrets might be small and unimportant, while another’s could be quite large and deep.”
“How deep is yours?” he asked, refusing to meet her gaze.
“Mine? Mine is deep enough. But not that deep.”
He clasped his palms tight. “And Father’s?”
“Well, Father’s is deeper.” She fell silent. “You see, your father is a great man. He was always like that, even when as young as you are now. When I first met him. He has been our people’s leader for so many summers. Not every man deserves that honor.”
“Especially if he is a foreigner, eh?” His anger was so sudden it almost choked him. “Who is he? An Aztec? A Tepanec? A filthy Acolhua Lowlander? Who is this man?”
She didn’t move, didn’t take her gaze away, her yellow eyes sad and full of compassion. “He was born a Tepanec, a nobleman of Azcapotzalco. But his mother came from the Far North, hence his foreign looks.” Her lips tightened. “He left his people of his free will. He came here, to live with me and my people, and he dedicated his whole life to making our fortune better. We were a defeated people. Now we are proud and warlike. We didn’t take back our lands, but we are still here, with our pride intact. Thanks to the people like your Father, Kuini. Think about it.” She looked at him searchingly. “What does his past, his origins, matter? He did nothing wrong. He was always what he is now, a kind, brave, strong person, a great warrior and a great leader. Why would you hold his origins against him now that you know his secret?”