The Other Time

by Mack Reynolds

  The Indian hesitated again, then, “Some say that he was of white complexion and had a black beard, even as your own.”

  Don felt his face ruefully. He hadn’t been able to shave in nearly two weeks and the stubble was getting on the long side. He understood that the Indians had razors made of thin slivers of obsidian. He would have to look into that; he didn’t like a beard. On the other hand, they had no soap beyond a few shrub roots. How did you shave without soap? Would some sort of oil soften the beard sufficiently?

  Cuauhtemoc said, still speaking carefully, “This is the year One Reed and Malintzin and his people have come. Xochitl fears it is the return of Quetzalcoatl, the feathered serpent god, come to demand that Huitzilopochtli be overthrown and that he be returned to power.”

  Don was somewhat acquainted with the story. Cortes had encouraged it as part of his scheme to confuse the Indians.

  He sighed and said, “Cortes isn’t Quetzalcoatl. He isn’t any other kind of god either.”

  “How do you know?”

  “As I told you before, there are no gods.”

  Suddenly eight or ten whistles began to sound and there was a rumble of drums.

  Cuauhtemoc came to his feet. “The summons for the meal,” he said.

  Don followed him—some dinner gong, he thought—through another maze of courtyards and connecting arches, they joining the mass of men headed in the same direction. Well, in the future he wouldn’t have any difficulty finding his way to where they ate. All he’d have to do was blend with the traffic.

  He was taken aback by the size of the room when they entered it. It must have been the better part of a hundred feet long and some thirty-five wide. It was full of men; at least five hundred, Don estimated.

  Women and boys were scurrying around, putting bowls on the floor. Some of the bowls were atop braziers to keep them hot. The men were dressed as always, loincloths and mantle; most of them were barefooted. They were very interested in Don Fielding, but avoided looking directly in his face—probably out of courtesy, he decided. Now that he thought of it, no Indian stared directly into your eye. It was a white man’s trait.

  Cuauhtemoc led him to the far end of the room where Motechzoma and his chiefs were gathered. Among them were some new additions to those Don had met at the meeting with the Tlatocan high council, but they weren’t introduced to him in spite of their obvious curiosity.

  Motechzoma sat in his version of a chair, but the others stood and most remained that way to eat, though some squatted. Before the war chief were spread a white cloth and several napkins. He pointed out various of the dishes, in their bowls on the floor; one of the boy waiters brought them to him. Two women approached with a basin and a ewer of water, and he washed his hands and dried them on the towels they provided.

  One by one the other chiefs and Cuauhtemoc and Don, in their turn, did the same.

  All through the room, men were inspecting the pots and making their selections. There must have been some three hundred dishes in all, Don decided, though many duplicated each other. A barbaric banquet!

  Cuauhtemoc took up a bowl and handed it to him. “Try this,” he offered.

  There were stacks of tortillas about and other types of native bread which he didn’t recognize, some of them sweet, probably with honey. All he could do was experiment.

  Other women came in with jars of frothy chocolate. It wasn’t sweetened, but they had seemed to add vanilla. It had been whipped into a foam and was excellent. They continued to bring in fresh supplies all through the meal.

  The dish his Indian companion had given him was a stew. They went in for stews, perhaps because there was so little meat in the diet. Save for turkey and the small edible dogs, meat was either wild or you did without. Whatever this conglomeration was, it was delicious. The Indian cooks—he assumed they were women—had a way with spices and herbs.

  Motechzoma motioned him to be seated at the royal side. Now that the decision as to what to do with Don had been made, the war chief was possibly relieved and now, of course, curious.

  As he ate and drank the chocolate, he said to Don, “You say that Malintzin is not a god, but my messengers have brought me paintings of his hills that float in the sea, of his terrible weapons that thunder and knock down trees and houses. Of his deer, upon which they ride.”

  Don finished his bowl of food and took up a piece of fruit from a nearby tray.

  He said, “In the land from which they come, across the sea, these things are the common property of all warriors. And in my own land, as well. They are not solely the property of gods. In time, I suppose, I could show you how to make them for your own use.”

  He thought about it. Could he? Vaguely, he knew that gunpowder was made from saltpeter, sulfur, and charcoal. They were ground to a fine powder and then combined. But in what proportions? And the gunpowder Don had seen was mostly brittle, glazed chunks, coarse for blasting powder, quite small for the black-powder guns of enthusiasts. Was it also necessary to press it into bricks and then crumble it again?

  Well, one day he’d have to try and collect the materials and have at it. Though where he might find saltpeter was a real poser.…

  Casually, knowing it might cause a sensation, he withdrew his pack of cigarettes. “You might find this amusing,” he said, offering one to Motechzoma.

  Don put his own in his mouth, brought forth his matches and lit up, inhaled gratefully and then blew a smoke ring—one of his very few party tricks.

  Motechzoma blinked. All the other chiefs were staring at him—and at Don.

  Motechzoma put the cigarette in his mouth and motioned to a boy with a light. Don anticipated him, struck another match, and touched it to the other’s smoke.

  The Indian cautiously sucked in. Then his eyes widened. “It is but tobacco,” he said. And then, “It is the best tobacco that I have ever tasted.”

  Don nodded modestly. “Kentucky,” he said.

  The obsidian eyes of Motechzoma glittered like a Spaniard eyeing solid gold.

  There was nothing for it. Sighing inwardly, he took out the pack with its remaining eight cigarettes and handed it to the First Speaker. Offhand, he couldn’t think of anything else he carried that might be utilized as a present; things like his Swiss knife he wanted to hang on to. The Indians, he knew, made clay pipes. He was going to have to acquire one and a supply of native tobacco, if he was going to continue the habit.

  Motechzoma expressed his thanks for the present of the tobacco of the gods and, the cigarette finished, rolled over on his side and promptly went to sleep. It could be seen that the institution of the siesta was not an invention of the Spanish alone. Most of the others in the lengthy dining hall were doing the same. The women and youngsters left, undoubtedly to go to their own meal, now that the men had been served.

  Not for Don Fielding; he wasn’t the least bit sleepy. He got up and headed for the nearest door. Cuauhtemoc, seeing him go, also stood and followed, although he looked as though he too could have enjoyed a nap. It was easily enough understood. With but one real meal a day, the Indians gorged themselves to the point of becoming groggy.

  In the courtyard, Don said to his companion, “If it were not for me, where would you go now?”

  “To the house of the Eagle clan, but my uncle has directed that you be my responsibility.”

  They started for Don’s quarters. He said curiously, “And what are your usual duties, as a Tenocha chief?”

  The other shook his head. “But I am not a chief. Upon occasion, my uncle or Snake-Woman utilizes me to give me experience, and of course, in times of war I become a leader of twenty since I am a Cuachimec.” He said the last with pride.

  Cuachimec meant, in Nahuatl, strong eagle or old eagle. So, in spite of his youth, Cuauhtemoc was already an Eagle Knight, as the Spanish called them—something like a corporal or sergeant.

  Don said, “But otherwise how do you pass your time?”

  The question evidently surprised the other. “Why—I work in t
he calpulli’s fields, in the plot that has been awarded me, upon my marriage, from the common lands.”

  It was Don’s turn to be surprised. He said, “But you’re a member of the Eagle clan and the nephew of Motechzoma himself.”

  Cuauhtemoc said, almost indignantly, “All members of the Eagle clan of my generation are nephews of Motechzoma, just as all members of his generation are my uncles. And who do you think would work our fields if we ourselves did not?”

  He had Don there. As an anthropologist, he should have remembered that the institutions of slavery or serfdom hadn’t appeared in this era as yet. The germ was there, but one man working for another was a rarity.

  They had reached the room assigned him. Don said, “I am free to wander about?”

  “Of course. As Snake-Woman said, there is no manner in which you can harm us and no place for you to go.”

  “Then, look. Why don’t you go see your family? I’ll look about. Tomorrow, perhaps, you can show me the city.”

  Cuauhtemoc favored him with a grin, gestured as if to say “you’re on your own,” and hurried off.

  Chapter Eleven

  Tenochtitlan took a lot of seeing.

  There was no equivalent in the twentieth century anywhere on earth, the nearest probably being some of the primitive towns of north central Africa, such as ancient Timbuktu. But even there civilization had made its imprint.

  Sometimes alone, more often accompanied by Cuauhtemoc, he explored the Neolithic city—the temples, the pyramids, the larger and more elaborate community buildings which housed most of the population. There was even a zoo; it consisted largely of birds, but to his surprise, there was even a bison. He knew that there was no such thing as a zoo in contemporary Europe. This was going to set the Spanish back when they saw it.

  They walked along the causeway to Chapultepec, paralleling the aqueduct which brought fresh water from the springs there to a huge basin in the great square. Many came to that point to dip up water, but this was not the only manner of distribution. At key points along the aqueduct, special canoes would come up. Water was dipped from the open ceramic pipes to fill containers in the boats which would then make off for deliveries. The aqueduct was about as big around as a man’s body and was, Don knew from his reading, the Achilles’ heel of the city. Cut the aqueduct and there was no fresh water for Tenochtitlan; the lake water was brackish and undrinkable.

  He was particularly impressed by Tlaltelolco, the twin city of Tenochtitlan to the north. They were divided only by one of the large canals and Don Fielding was reminded of Minneapolis and St. Paul, of Buda and Pest. Aside from the fact that the pyramid there, which adjoined the marketplace, was the largest in the combined city and from its top a superlative view could be had of the whole area, the market itself was the largest Don Fielding had ever seen. It must have been larger than the Hailes market of Paris of his own day and literally covered acres.

  Surely this was not just the market of Tenochtitlan-Tlaltelolco, nor even, for that matter, the principal one of the cities, towns, and villages of the Mexican valley. It was the largest market over that whole part of Mexico dominated by Tenochtitlan and her allies. Food was only one of the items for which thousands bartered. There were textiles of a score of materials and a hundred styles, by appearance done by dozens of different tribes. There were stalls for leather goods, paper, stone implements; there were birds, to be eaten or made into pets; there were dealers in gold, silver, native copper, and even lead; there were whole streets of herb sellers and nearby apothecary shops where the herbs were made up into Indian medicines; there must have been at least an acre of ceramic vendors. It was all highly impressive.

  Working through Cuauhtemoc, Don got his obsidian razors and a jar of oil which had evidently been extracted from some plant with which he was unfamiliar. There were barber shops in the square and he decided that he would have his first shave in two weeks at the hands of a professional so as to avoid butchering himself. Cuauhtemoc paid for both the razors and the shave with a few cocoa beans he took from a pouch slung over his shoulder.

  They made some minor purchases, including paper, ink, and writing quills for Don, and when his companion ran out of the beans, he bought another quantity with a shake of gold dust which he carried in a turkey feather quill. A very rude money was obviously evolving in this economy. Don worried over repaying him until the other explained that Motechzoma had ruled that any expenses involved in Don’s stay be drawn from the city treasury.

  So, he was a ward of the government.

  It was when they reached the street of the woodworkers that inspiration hit him. Their stone tools, sometimes augumented with copper knives, axes, drills, and hammers, were crude but they seemed to get their products done with them.

  Working still through his Indian companion, Don sketched a three-legged stool and then a simple table. Shaking his head in wonderment, Cuauhtemoc placed the order and gave instructions on where it was to be delivered. By the looks of it, he was well known to all and evidently well liked. Don could understand that; Cuauhtemoc, who was rapidly becoming a friend, projected good will. His always ready smile had a charm that worked on all, not just on Don Fielding. He ought to run for election; this young Aztec could have sent Cesar Chavez back to the barrio.

  Another idea hit him when he came to a section devoted to shields. They were made on a circular wooden frame, then covered with very stiff animal hide which was in turn covered with highly colorful featherwork. Looking thoughtful, he had Cuauhtemoc, once again mystified, buy him one.

  Cuauhtemoc said in puzzlement, “But that is the shield of the coyote clan of the Mix tecs. Our featherwork is superior to their own, so their pochteca traders buy them from here for those who can afford the quality.”

  “I’ll show you why I want it later,” Don told him.

  When they returned to his room, late that afternoon—they had eaten in the market—it was to find, to Don’s surprise, that the stool and table had already been delivered. Cuauhtemoc had witnessed Cortes’s folding chair and had probably even sat in one when he had eaten with the Spaniards in Cempoala, but they obviously held no comfort for him. He had also seen how the Spanish sat at the table when they dined, so that article of furniture wasn’t a completely new item either.

  Don sat on the stool and put his newly acquired shield on the table. He stripped off the feather-covered leather to reveal the heavy circular woodwork beneath. He brought forth his Swiss army knife and opened up the awl. He laboriously dug a hole through as near to the exact center as he could make it and then opened up the largest of the knife blades and cut the hole larger and as smooth as possible.

  He put the shield aside and got out his writing equipment and did his best to sketch a wheelbarrow. His best wasn’t very good, he decided, and he tried again. In actuality, he had never had occasion to use a wheelbarrow in his life. He had seen them, of course, but it had never occurred to him to inspect one with thorough care. Why should it?

  He finally came up with a sketch that was probably going to be as good as he could manage. He kept that one and did another, based on it, from another angle. And then from a third angle. He was no blueprint man by any means, but these would have to do.

  It took him a full hour to explain to Cuauhtemoc, who had been squatting on the floor all this time, looking at him in amazement, just what he had in mind. Finally, he got it through.

  The other stared down at the three sketches. He said finally, “But why?”

  “Friend,” Don told him. “The wheel has just been introduced to Mexico.”

  “But we put these things on little toys, clay dogs; our children push them around, playing with them.”

  Don nodded. “So I have heard, but it has never occurred to your engineers, such as they are, to use them as a tool. So now we’ll go about developing the wheel as a tool.”

  It took them three trips to the woodworkers before they came up with a wheelbarrow sufficiently sturdy to be useful. They had no nails and wo
oden pegs had to do.

  Don himself pushed it over to where some construction work was going on at a pyramid. Without bothering to give a talk of instruction and with Cuauhtemoc standing by as wide-eyed as the Indian workers they were interrupting, Don loaded four of the worked stones into the wheelbarrow and began pushing it about at a great pace. Holy smokes, it worked! The construction men had carried but one stone of this size at a time.

  A temple priest, black-robed, filthy, was standing nearby, his face dark. He rasped to Cuauhtemoc rather than to Don Fielding, “What is this?”

  Don answered, “It is a method whereby one man can do the work of four, and with more ease.”

  “It is not the manner in which a Tenocha carries stone.”

  “Not just stone,” Don explained reasonably. “They can be made either smaller or larger, and anything to be transported for short distances can be carried.”

  “It is not the way in which our ancestors have forever carried their burdens!”

  “That’s too bad, because it is a better way!” Cuauhtemoc was in-between. He was a good citizen of his city and a good Tenocha. He was also religious and didn’t buck the priests of the temples in which he worshipped.

  However, he rose to the occasion. He said quietly, “It is a method of carrying burdens which they use in the land of the teteuhs.”

  The black-robed fanatic shrank. He obviously wasn’t of a mental caliber to answer that. How did a priest answer that?

  Cuauhtemoc said evenly, “It is known that when Quetzalcoatl lived in Tula, capital of the Toltecs, he introduced many new ways.” The young Indian paused, then added significantly, “Even the use of maize, which is our staff of life.”

  How did a priest answer that?

  By this time, a multitude was surrounding them, staring the new device from… from the land of the gods, demonstrated several times, picking up expertise as he went along. He knew very well, though, that in a matter of days these laborers would have it down more pat than he ever could. It wasn’t his field.