by Clare Bell
Again the old man was quiet, measuring him, reading him. Could the tale-teller sense the hunger in him that had grown almost desperate? He had to find a new hope; a new power before the mania of Hummingbird on the Left consumed Ilhuicamina, who had once been his friend.
“Is my search too late?” he whispered, more to himself than the old tale-teller. “Have all the Magicians and their ways died out? If so, Hummingbird rises unopposed and we are lost.”
“No,” said his visitor, in a tone much deeper and stronger than Wise Coyote had heard him use. “You are not lost to Tenochtitlan. If you believe and if you aid the ones in whom the ancient blood flows.”
“Who?” Wise Coyote looked up from his reverie, startled that the old man had answered.
“They are called the Jaguar’s Children, tlatoani, and I will tell you their story.”
And so Wise Coyote settled on his mat like a child before his teacher and the old tale-teller wove his tapestry of words.
Long ago, before ages were counted in the cycle of New Fires, a people arose in the jungle country near the eastern seacoast. At first their ways were no different from the scattered bands of half-savage dwellers about them; they hunted animals, grubbed in the ground for roots, gathered plants and roamed endlessly as did the ancestors of the Aztec, Chichimec and others. But a change came upon them. No one really knew where it came from, but it was said that it was at that time that the gods first descended to walk among men in the form of jaguars.
From the union of earthly human and divine cat came children with the flesh of both and powers that gained them the name of Magicians. These children became the first kings among their people. They built the first pyramid towers and ceremonial centers, began the cycle of ritual about which life was built and gave to the world two great gifts, the writing of glyphs and the creation of the calendar.
For age upon age, kings with jaguar blood ascended to the onyx thrones of their ancestors, yet there were times when they fled the pyramid towers to take on jaguar shape and run wild in the forest. It was a conflict within that started the downfall of the Magicians but the cause remained hidden. Even so, it started many cracks that weakened the edifice of this first empire until it began to crumble. Invasions from outside ended the rule of the jaguar kings and the people went back to a simple forest life.
But those with the heritage of the great cat did not disappear. Though widely scattered and weakened, they kept contact with each other, bred to keep the sacred blood alive and watched with growing dismay as the Aztecs washed over the lands that had once been theirs, bringing with them a god whose demands for blood horrified even those who had been born of the predator.
“The Jaguar’s Children still exist,” said the old man. as Wise Coyote leaned back on his hands. “And they are as devoted as you are to checking the rise of Tenochtitlan’s bloody god.”
“Then tell me where they are,” said Wise Coyote, growing excited. “I must meet with their leaders, make an alliance.”
The old tale-teller shifted to ease his stiff back. “I do not know where they are, tlatoani. Even if I did, you would not be able to find them by seeking. You must wait until they send word to you.”
“How long will that be?” Wise Coyote asked as the old man started to get to his feet. “And how will I know that the message comes from them instead of from enemies who might wish to deceive me?”
“They will send you a sign that only you can interpret,” said the old man, arranging his robes about him. “I am grateful for the refreshments and the kindness you have showed me, but I must be on my way.”
Wise Coyote was filled with questions, but he kept them to himself as he personally showed the old taleteller out of a side entrance to the palace so that he would not have to endure the insults of the nobles. He also gave the old man gifts of cloth and food.
When he returned to his chambers, he felt dizzy with warring doubt and hope, as if he were again a youth, embarking for the first time on life. Now the ones’ for whom he searched had a name. The Jaguar’s Children. The doubter in him said that the old tale-teller was as much a fake as all the others, but something else in him wanted to believe. All he could do now was to wait and hope that when the sign came from the Jaguar’s Children, he would have the wit to recognize it and the courage to act.
Mixcatl soon knew that Speaking Quail’s challenge and Six-Wind’s words had persuaded or perhaps shamed the administrators of the calmecac into setting aside the punishment they had intended for her.
Several days after the special assembly in the school. Speaking Quail again brought the girl into his quarters. She saw Six-Wind sitting cross-legged on a mat. Across from him, seated on an icpalli, was a plump middle-aged man in fine robes.
“Master of Scribes,” said Speaking Quail, “this is the girl I told you about.”
Mixcatl edged cautiously toward the master-scribe, feeling shy and confused. Then she caught a scent that made her eyes widen—the smell of paints, ink and brushes hung about the man. She lost her shyness and came forward eagerly. From the corner of her eye she could see the scrolls that Speaking Quail had shown the Master of Scribes. They contained samples of her work.
“She is young, as you say, but definitely gifted,” said the Master of Scribes to Speaking Quail. “We have not taken many girl-children as apprentices, though there have been a few.” He stroked his beardless chin. “There is also the matter of her religious instruction. As I understand you, she has next to none. This is most unusual, even for a slave-child. Such a lack is a serious matter.”
Speaking Quail answered, “She was not taught religion because she was thought to be backward. Since that is clearly wrong, we at the calmecac are at fault. I propose to tutor her personally. It will not take long to make up the deficiency. I have found that she is a very rapid learner.”
“Would she continue to stay with you during that time?”
“Regretfully, no. There has been too much disruption and controversy surrounding her. I ask that you make a place for her in the House of Scribes. During the first year, your apprentices learn to make the blank books that are used for the records. While she is engaged in that task, she can also be coming to me for religious instruction.”
Mixcatl held her breath as she watched the master-scribe consider Speaking Quail’s proposal. She had wanted to speak out for herself, but sensed that it would be better if she stayed quiet.
At last the Master of Scribes seemed to have reached a decision. “I think such an arrangement could work and would benefit the House of Scribes. I must discuss this with my superiors, but I feel they will agree.”
He turned to Mixcatl. “So you wish to be a glyph-painter, do you, child?” He stroked his chin again, then looked at Speaking Quail. “You realize, scholar, that the life of a scribe-painter is a difficult, exacting one. I will not hide the fact from you or the child. At the upper levels, great demands are made on our artists and those who cannot meet the challenge are punished severely, even killed.”
Mixcatl saw the teacher’s face pale slightly. Was he going to turn away the possibility because he thought it too hard or dangerous for her? No I There was nothing else to put in its place. She could not stay in the calmecac and the only other alternative was to be sold once again. Solemnly she said, “Speaking Quail, do not be afraid. I am strong enough to bear any punishment and I am not afraid of being killed. I want to be a glyph-painter. Let me go to the House of Scribes.”
“Little one,” began the scholar, drawing her to him. “Do you understand the choice you are making?”
“Yes,” answered Mixcatl. Turning to the Master of Scribes, she said defiantly, “I will paint so well that you will not need to punish me or kill me.”
“Well, she is certainly not too timid,” said the Master of Scribes, jovially. “Or too modest. Actually, Speaking Quail, I think she will do very well. The punishments are for lazy or untalented painters and she, I think, is neither.”
“Will you take her then?�
�� asked Speaking Quail. “There will be no price asked. I ask only that you treat her as you do your other apprentices. If you do, I am sure you will be rewarded.”
“When can you bring her?”
“Three days after we receive word from your superiors. We will need to get a replacement…and”—his gaze strayed briefly to Six-Wind—“we would like to give her a little time to say farewell.”
The Master of Scribes said he understood perfectly and rose to leave. Mixcatl, still dazed by happiness and the wonderful odor of paints and brushes, ran to Speaking Quail and hugged him. As she buried her head against the sweet scent of his robe, a tightness came into her throat. He had been so good to her when he didn’t have to be. He had fought to give her a place and a life.
She fumbled, trying to say words of gratitude, but none would come. Finally she said awkwardly, “You have done so much for me. Speaking Quail. I wish I could do something for you.”
Gently the scholar disengaged Mixcatl’s arms. “You will be living in the House of Scribes, but returning each day to me for religious instruction. You will please me by learning your lessons well.” He paused, smiled gently. “And you will have a good life, child. That is all the reward I need.”
“Even after that time is over, I will not forget you—or Six-Wind either,” she said turning to the boy, who still sat, somewhat awkwardly, across from Speaking Quail. Another child might have blushed or ducked his head, but the young scholar quietly extended his hand to Mixcatl. It was a gesture that freemen and noblemen used with each other, never with peasants or slaves. Mixcatl knew that and grasped his hand carefully. His palm was dry and warm.
“I hope that the Master of Scribes will give you your freedom,” he said solemnly. “You deserve more than the life of a slave.”
“For now I will be happy as a slave who paints,” Mixcatl answered.
Six-Wind’s face broke into a roguish smile. “I will miss you, little slopjar carrier. Perhaps I can visit you in the House of Scribes. Maybe when I am older and have my own household, I can buy you and free you, if the Master of Scribes hasn’t done it by then. I mean it,” he said intently and Mixcatl found herself looking deep into his eyes. “Well, farewell, at least for now,” the boy said, getting up. “I have classes to attend.” He disappeared through the door hangings.
Mixcatl, feeling a bit overwhelmed, took refuge in her duties. Backing toward the door, she told Speaking Quail that she had pots to empty.
“Do not become too fond of that work,” the scholar said. “You have only three more days of it.”
“Who will buy the new slave? You?”
Speaking Quail laughed. “Maguey Thorn will send anyone but me, I imagine. Go do your pots.”
She scuttled away.
Mixcatl told her news to the boatboy Latosl when he came by in the refuse barge.
“So I will be living in the House of Scribes,” she ended proudly. “Have you seen it?”
Latosl said that he had. It was a large grand-looking building near the palace of the Speaker-King himself. “But I’ll still be able to see you,” he added. “Even those people have dung jars and they need someone to empty them.”
Mixcatl wasn’t so sure, but she said that she would try to be out on the canalside when Latosl’s boat came by. “I will be able to tell it is you before I see you,” she teased, referring to the pungent odor that hung about the barge and wafted ahead to announce its coming.
“Speaking of the barge, there is one thing I should do before you leave,” said Latosl.
“What?”
“Teach you to swim. I am sure that the Master of Scribes would not want the career of such a talented pupil to be cut short by drowning in the canal.”
Mixcatl agreed and said that she would be out on the quay early the following morning. Latosl said that if she wasn’t, the consequences would serve her right. She grinned, thinking about how much fun it would be to go with him and paddle about in a cool stream. If she learned quickly, she might even be able to show off her skill to Six-Wind before she left the calmecac!
The following morning was not all that she had anticipated. Latosl came when promised, and picked her up. The morning was as golden and warm as she had hoped and no one noticed that she was gone. Even the boat ride itself was enjoyable, for there were no dung jars yet aboard and Latosl had scrubbed away most of the stink.
But when they reached the quiet backwater and Latosl started his instruction, Mixcatl discovered one unanticipated and frustrating fact. Her body would not float.
She was not afraid to put her face in the water or even to open her eyes underneath. She was not stiff and tense either, but totally relaxed. Yet every time she leaned back with Latosl’s hand underneath to steady her, she sank like a boulder and had to stand up spluttering.
“I don’t understand,” the boatboy said. “Everyone floats. What did you do? Eat stones for breakfast?”
Mixcatl considered the possibility that Maguey Thorn’s tortillas had the density of flattened rock, but as she had not yet eaten that morning, she couldn’t blame the contents of her stomach. She tried again, attempting to lie straight in the water instead of bending in the middle. Nothing helped. She went down like a stone statue.
Latosl tried to hold her up and found himself struggling. “Why are you so heavy?” he asked. “You are not fat. Even if you were, you should be light in water.”
By drifting around on his back, Latosl showed her how it was supposed to work. “Try to push me down,” he said, “and see, I pop right back up again. When I take a deep breath, I float even better. Try that.”
Mixcatl gave a huge inhalation, but even the deepest breath could not overcome her inherent tendency to sink. At last she gave up and sat in the shallow water, gritting her teeth in frustration.
“Everybody floats,” said Latosl again.
“Maybe slaves don’t,” she said crossly.
“Everybody does. Even animals. I’ve seen dogs and even turkeys. They squawk and gabble, but they float.”
“Everyone does except me. Why?”
Latosl spread his hands. Worldly as he was, he’d had no experience with anything like this. “Maybe you should ask a healer,” he said at last.
“Why? I’m not sick.”
“But you don’t float when other people do. Maybe that’s a kind of sickness.”
Mixcatl thought about that. “I don’t think so,” she said slowly. “And I don’t think that a healer would know about this.” She got out of the stream and wrung water from her garments. “I should go back, Latosl. Anyway, a scribe doesn’t need to swim.”
As the barge glided back down the stream, Mixcatl sat on the peeling wooden deck and puzzled over the strange difference that seemed to set her apart. People floated. Animals floated. But she couldn’t, no matter how hard she tried. Did that mean that she was made of something different than the people and animals around her? She sighed unhappily at the thought.
Well, even if she was made of different stuff, it should not matter to the people in the House of Scribes. At least she hoped that it wouldn’t.
“Well, if you fall into a canal, I’ll be there to fish you out,” said Latosl, trying to be helpful.
The breeze was pleasant and the sun warm all the way back to the calmecac, but Mixcatl found that she was too distracted to enjoy them. What was she? she wondered. Would she ever find out?
She stared at the water gliding by and tried to lose herself in the green depths of the canal. She didn’t even feel the bump when the barge came to rest at the quay.
Two days later, word came from the House of Scribes that the arrangement proposed by Speaking Quail had been approved. The tutor intercepted her while she was making her morning rounds and she jumped so high with joy that she almost dropped her pots. Her excitement chased away the dismay of learning that she could not swim. What did that matter now? Her hopes and wishes had come true. She was going to be a glyph-painter!
“This news comes at an auspicious
time,” said Speaking Quail. “This is the seventh day of Xochitl, the Month of Flowers. It is honored by weavers, painters and, of course, scribes.” He paused. “Since you have no calendar name, you might consider adopting Seven-Flower.”
“What do you mean by a ‘calendar name’?” Mixcatl asked, puzzled.
“I keep forgetting that you have had no Aztec schooling,” said Speaking Quail, with a mild touch of impatience. “Did your people have no way of reckoning the passage of days?”
Mixcatl tried to reach back in her mind, but everything was too fuzzy. She had been so young when she had been taken from her village. Slowly she answered, “I think they did, but it was…different.”
“Well, here the calendar is very important. So much so that we name ourselves by our day of birth. Of course, since more than one child is born on each day, we have personal names as well. My full name is Three-House Speaking Quail, since I was born on the third day of the month called Calli, or House. Come to my study and I will explain.”
As she settled herself on the mats in his chamber and listened attentively, he explained the Aztec calendar and how it worked. There were actually two calendars, one based on the solar year and used for secular purposes; the other, more important, was the tonalpoualli, the sacred or divinatory calendar. Aztec children were named for their day of birth as reckoned by the tonalpoualli.
The divinatory calendar was made up of twenty months, with names such as Wind, House, Lizard, Flower, Rabbit, Earthquake and others. Each month had thirteen days, with each day being designated by the month’s name followed by the day number. He gave the examples that she already knew. Maguey Thorn, the matron, had been born on Ten-Earthquake. Cactus Eagle, the deceased elder, had been born on Two-Rabbit.
The combination of the thirteen numbers and twenty month-signs gave a series of 260 days, which formed the sacred year.
“When the gods decide that a child will come down to us on a specific day,” said Speaking Quail, “the sign of that day will govern him until he dies. His fate is laid out for him and nothing he does may alter it.” He gave more examples while she listened, pointing out that the signs could be baleful as well as benevolent. For instance, a child born under the sign Four-Dog would be rich and prosperous. The sign One-Jaguar condemned its possessor to die as a prisoner of war.