by Clare Bell
Her gaze traveled to the man’s face and she knew, in a distant way, that he had been overcome not by the power of her attack but the shock of her appearance. Miserably she put out a forelimb and tried to stroke his cheek, but her fingers had become too blunt and immobile for her to do much more than paw him, like a beast.
This man…meant…something to her, something murky that she could no longer understand but that still echoed in the remembered kindness of his voice, the gentle lightness of his touch. With a great effort to move beyond the trance of animal thought, she wished that he would wake again and stroke her with the same gentleness, but she knew that if he did wake, he would cry out in terror and flee screaming.
Panting in great shuddering gasps, she clutched Huet-zin’s head into the circle of her forelimbs and laid her face against his.
Another shout, above and behind her, made her start, but she would not release the man from her embrace. Looking up, she felt her ears flatten and saw the shadow of a club descend upon her head.
Wise Coyote let the club fall from his hand as he stood over his son Huetzin and the creature that had been Mixcatl. He had dealt the thing enough blows to kill it, yet it still breathed and kept its hateful embrace about Huetzin’ s neck.
The moonlight spilled over his shoulder onto the two bodies on the lawn. He did not want to recognize Mixcatl in the shape of the beast that lay on her side in front of him, but enough of her face was left in the cat muzzle that he could not help but know her. And the forelimbs, wrapped tightly about Huetzin’s neck, told what Wise Coyote did not want to know.
Though he had saved her from sacrifice by bringing her into his household, nurtured her talents, fed her hunger for knowledge and her need for guidance, she had turned from him to Huetzin. Though she might still serve as an ally against the Aztecs, his hopes of a loving sympathetic partner were destroyed. Gone too were the dreams of a jaguar queen who would bear him sons that carried the strength of the ancient blood. He had always been the builder, but now his plans had fallen into dust.
His hands closed about the dagger, lifting it high to plunge into the cat ribs of the creature. One stroke would end an accursed life and free both him and Huetzin from the web of fear and madness in which they had been caught. One stroke, and Wise Coyote could not make it.
Tears of rage and grief burned in his eyes. It was not pity or love that made him lower the dagger but a more complex blend of emotions that seethed in him as he looked at Huetzin. Fool! Betrayer! He wanted to shout the* words aloud. All love for his son fled as he stared down at the youth, who lay as if peacefully sleeping within the embrace of the creature.
So you would love her, Huetzin. Then bear the wounds of that love.
Another thing was there, a creature of vengeance that took over Wise Coyote’s body, closed his hands on the obsidian dagger as he bent over Huetzin. The dagger’s shadow fell on the youth’s face as the point descended.
No. It would be too easy to just kill you.
With five short deep dagger-strokes that lay together like the claws of a jaguar. Wise Coyote ripped Huetzin’s cheek from eye to jaw. As Huetzin cried out, waking from the pain. Wise Coyote plunged his knife twice into the back of Huetzin’s hand, then yanked it free and stepped back quickly as the youth writhed.
He saw, too late, that his knife had struck Huetzin’s right hand, the one that guided the chisel. As he stared down at the blood welling from the wound, he realized what he had done. The rage seething in him turned to shock and then remorse.
He cursed the blind fury that had made him strike the youth’s sculpting hand.
When he wakes and sees his hand destroyed…I would have been more merciful to have slain him.
A hoarse cry broke the trance of anger and grief that held Wise Coyote. He glanced back, saw Nine-Lizard stumble down the steps of the patio. Lights flared in the palace windows, telling him that servants had been roused by the noise.
The king tossed his knife into the waters of one of the fast-running streams that cut across the lawn. The current would sweep it far down from Tezcotzinco and wash it clean of his son’s blood.
He took a hempen rope from his waist, knotted it into a noose and slipped it about the Mixcatl-creature’s neck. With a yank, he broke her hold on Huetzin and dragged her away. Convulsively the youth sat up and stared with terrified eyes at the creature, a scream bubbling in his throat.
Nine-Lizard reached them. Wise Coyote thrust the rope end into the old man’s hand.
“Hold her while I see to my son,” the king said brusquely. He took Huetzin into his arms, cradling him, shielding him from the sight of the thing.
“It was the deer, wasn’t it,” Nine-Lizard whispered, kneeling beside him. The old scribe sounded puzzled. “I thought Huetzin had them taken away.”
“Some must have escaped or were missed,” Wise Coyote answered, feeling dead inside. “I saw one near the house. Huetzin tried to stop her from attacking it and she savaged him.” He looked back over his shoulder and hissed, “Servants are coming. I want them to know nothing of this. Drag her into the bushes while I carry my son to his room. To them the story will be that Huetzin was attacked by a mountain cat but it was driven off.”
He saw Nine-Lizard nod mutely, then haul the unconscious form of the half-transformed thing behind an oleander bush.
The youth in his arms was panting and moaning, with occasional small terrified cries.
“Hush,” the king said softly, though the words caught in his throat. “You are wounded, my son, but you will live.”
The youth’s head lolled and moonlight gleamed on his blood-smeared cheek. Tears were rolling down and mixing with the welling crimson as Huetzin moaned, “It wasn’t Mixcatl. Tell me that she did not turn on me.”
But silence was the only answer Wise Coyote could give as he bore his son into the palace.
After Wise Coyote had seen to Huetzin, he went to another chamber where the form of a young woman lay on a pallet. Perhaps it was the shock of the attack that made Mixcatl’s transformation reverse itself, but whatever the reason, he was grateful.
Inside, Nine-Lizard knelt by Mixcatl, rubbing salve on her limbs and dabbing fever sweat from her brow. The king hesitated on the threshold, remembering the enraged, distorted creature she had become.
With a gesture, Nine-Lizard invited him in. “She will be too weak to transform for several days. It is safe.”
Wise Coyote sat down near the pallet. He had known that leaving Mixcatl unconfined was risky, but he could not bear the thought of putting her back in the wooden cage.
“How fares Huetzin?” Nine-Lizard asked.
“I have given him into the care of his mother. She is skilled at nursing the wounded. I myself have lain under her care.”
“Did she ask what happened?”
“I gave her the explanation we agreed on—that the youth startled a great cat who was stalking his deer,” Wise Coyote answered.
“Those facial wounds will not heal without scars. Be grateful that the young man is not prey to vanity. The bite wounds on his hand…” Nine-Lizard shook his head.
The old man did not have to finish his sentence for Wise Coyote to know what he meant. It would be many seasons before the young sculptor’s maimed right hand could again hold a stone-chisel, if ever. And Wise Coyote would have to look upon his son as Huetzin struggled, knowing that it was his knife that had crippled the youth, not Mixcatl’s teeth.
For an instant he wanted to confess to Nine-Lizard what had happened out on the darkened lawn, then he closed his eyes. No. To admit to the act would be to admit the savagery in his own soul and a cruelty that rivaled that of the Aztecs.
Instead he thrust the thought from his mind and seized upon another.
“She nearly completed the transformation this time,” he whispered, fixing his eyes on the girl, who moved restlessly on her pallet. He could see that his eyes and tone of voice betrayed a feverish eagerness that he strove to conceal. He could also see that
it disgusted Nine-Lizard, although the old scribe said nothing.
“Tlatoani, you know what should be done,” Nine-Lizard said in a low voice, looking away. “The Jaguar’s Children are ready to take Mixcatl and train her properly in the use of her gifts. I have asked them to send someone for her.”
“I did not give you permission to do so,” Wise Coyote said tightly.
“Then what will you do? Keep the girl imprisoned until the full power of her heritage comes through? Each time she transforms, she will be stronger and more dangerous. The tragedy that happened tonight will pale beside that yet to come. My king, I beg you to give up this ill-fated plan. Let Mixcatl go back to her people who are ready to reclaim her. For her sake…and yours as well.”
“If I do release her back to those who call themselves the Jaguar’s Children, will they return her to me when she is able to perform the role that I have asked of her?”
Nine-Lizard met Wise Coyote’s eyes with the same unsettling steady gaze that the king had come to hate over the past few days.
“I cannot speak for them,” he said coldly. “I doubt that they would want her to engage in such a charade as you propose. How can I make you understand that Mixcatl and others like her are not gods; at least not the kind you seek.”
“That may be true, but what matters is that IIhuicamina and those blood-smeared priests of his will believe.” Wise Coyote paced the floor beside Mixcatl’s pallet.
“And you would turn him aside by walking before his people with a woman who can turn into a jaguar at the snap of your fingers.”
Wise Coyote felt anger flare, but he kept his voice level. “To them she will be a goddess, and I her favored one. Other kings have risen to rule the Triple Alliance on less that that.”
“She will be but a performing animal,” Nine-Lizard snapped back. “And you, though you may not intend it, will become a tyrant. Neither one of you deserves such a fate.”
At this Wise Coyote lost his temper. “Be quiet, old man, or I will have your tongue cut out!”
He saw Nine-lizard pale in shock and anger.
O Tloque Nahaque, I am becoming everything that I hate in other kings.
He put his hand to his forehead, wishing he could somehow undo everything that had happened.
“Tlatoani?” Nine-Lizard asked softly. “Am I dismissed?”
“No. Stay. Your tongue is safe if you use it wisely.”
Nine-lizard was silent while Wise Coyote gathered his rage-scattered wits.
“Texcoco deserves better than to become a province of Tenochtitlan,” the king said harshly. “I know of no other way. I know Ilhuicamina’s weakness, and in this girl I have a weapon I can use to strike him to the heart. I would be a fool if I failed to use it.”
“Tlatoani, will you not believe that there are other alternatives?”
“What? An alliance with the Jaguar’s Children? I would do so gladly, if they would come forth, show themselves and speak to me. I have made it well known.
And what do I hear? Nothing. If you really wish to aid me, use your influence to bring their leaders here.”
“I have tried.”
“What do they say?”
“That their previous experience with royal houses such as yours has made them very wary. They will decide when and how to act. I have made them aware of the danger you are in. I cannot do more.”
“Then they are useless,” said the king impatiently. “Mixcatl, at least, can serve my purpose. Now that I have her, I will not let her go.” Wise Coyote found that he was again on the brink of shouting. He took a deep breath. “Now leave, old man. She is waking. I must speak to her alone.”
Nine-Lizard rose and went to the doorway, his head bent, his feet dragging.
“I pray to the gods that you do not destroy her,” he whispered. “Or yourself, either.”
Mixcatl slept for several more hours while Wise Coyote stayed beside her. At last, when dawn announced itself by creeping under the edges of door hangings, he saw the girl stir, yawn and open her eyes. Her gaze was mild and dreamy, as if she had woken from a night that included only the most restful of slumbers. Not until she felt the ointment on her arms and the healing skin beneath did a haunted look come into her eyes as she lay on her pallet.
“I dreamed that I changed again. That it hurt so much that I went wild and attacked someone. Then I got out of my chamber and tried to stalk a deer and someone else made me stop.” She lifted her eyes to Wise Coyote. “It was not a dream, was it? I know I tried to hurt someone.”
“Huetzin,” Wise Coyote said as gently as he could.
Mixcatl lifted herself on her elbows, breathing hard, eyes staring. With an abrupt start, she tried to rise from the pallet. Wise Coyote put a hand on her chest and pushed her back. He could feel the drumming of her heart beneath his palm and knew that she was terribly afraid that she had slain Huetzin.
“I could not have,” she said, her eyes grown feverish. “I remember now—his face. I fought to hold myself back. I could not have killed him—I…” Her voice faded. Despite her pleading words. Wise Coyote knew that she did not remember and he could say the words that already felt like filth in his mouth.
“You attacked him, but you did not kill him. I pulled you off in time. He lives, but his face is scarred and his right hand is badly bitten.”
Her heart slowed; he could feel it beneath his palm.
“May I see him?” she asked.
“I think it better not to. I left him in the care of his mother. Now lie back.”
She let herself be pushed back down onto the pallet.
“You are right,” she said savagely. “If he sees me, he will shrink away in terror. It is better that I never see him again.”
Wise Coyote ached with the wish to comfort the girl, but another part of him whispered that her pain served his purpose.
She wept, softly, her face turned toward the wall. She grimaced, too, with pain and he could see that the salty tears were stinging the still-tender skin of her face.
“Mixcatl,” he said softly, and when she did finally turn her head toward him, he dabbed the welling tears away.
“I wish,” she said, “that I will never change again.”
“I do not think that wishing will alter what you are,” said Wise Coyote.
“And what am I?”
“Nine-Lizard calls you Tepeyolotli, Heart-of-the-Mountain. He believes that you will be a great queen of your people when you develop your full powers.” He paused. “Mixcatl, I know this is hard. You have wished to be only a human woman, an artist and a scribe. But you are not. By your gift, you are set apart. You will change again and nothing you or I can do will stop it from happening. Do not fight against your nature. Each time, you will become stronger, more powerful. Then you will be able to stand against the enemies that threaten both of us.”
The tears slowed their trickle as the hardness of anger replaced the sorrow in her eyes.
“That is better,” said Wise Coyote. “A jaguar does not weep.”
A strange bitter smile came onto her face. “It is you who wishes to be the jaguar, tlatoani. If I could, I would give you my gift.”
Her words tore at the weak place in his heart but he said only, “That is something you cannot do. Use it for me instead of casting it away.”
She was silent for a long time, staring up at nothing. On the pallet, in the chamber, she looked lost and alone. Wise Coyote wanted to take her in his arms and hold her close, but his memory of seeing Huetzin in her embrace stopped him.
Let her be alone. Let her find the armor that is built from sorrow. Only then will she be fit for the purpose I plan. Softness only rots the bowstring, warps the spear, chips the glass-edged sword. Let her be hard.
“Will you see Huetzin?” Her voice was flat.
“I will be paying him a visit.” He kept his voice neutral. “Have you a message for him?”
“Tell him I wish I could have pulled my teeth out by the roots before they closed on his
hand. Give him all the best healers so that he may sculpt again.”
“I have sent out word for healers who specialize in such wounds,” Wise Coyote answered.
She looked up at him and suddenly he saw her as a woman still close to childhood, her face crisscrossed by wide pink swaths, as if she had been burned badly but was now miraculously healing.
“You speak as if you understand,” she said softly. “But you do not. No one can know what it is like to have become a beast, to have turned on someone you thought you loved.”
Wise Coyote opened his mouth, then closed it, but the words echoed in his mind. I know it too well.
“I must go, Mixcatl. Rest and prepare yourself.”
“For the next time.”
He nodded tightly as he left the room, not trusting himself to speak.
Much later, the king of Texcoco sat on his sleeping mat, his head cradled between his two hands. He had been to see Huetzin. The boy’s wounds had been anointed and wrapped. Potions had been given to dull the pain, but they could do nothing about the madness that threatened in the youth’s eyes.
The concubine with the golden skin had accosted Wise Coyote in the outer chamber that led to the room where the youth lay. She looked at him with grief and bewilderment in her eyes.
“What happened to my son?” she asked, her melodic voice hoarse with weeping. “The wounds on his face and hand do not explain his staring and raving. Would a mountain cat be such a fearful thing? He cries and whimpers like an infant and will not speak.”
“To one not trained as a hunter or warrior, such an encounter can be devastating,” Wise Coyote said. “A gentle nature is often vulnerable to shocks like this. Please do not worry. He will come to himself again soon.”
“Well, there will be no temptation for wild beasts to prowl the grounds of Tezcotzinco,” said the woman. “I sent house servants to kill the deer.”