by Clare Bell
Perhaps the image should crumble. The thought came to Wise Coyote, but he did not push it away as he had so many others.
I am just as obsessed and driven by fear as llhuicamina. As he seeks to raise up his god, so do I seek to raise up mine. Who am I to condemn the cruelty of his methods when mine have caused equal pain?
Wise Coyote shuddered and buried his face in his hands. I acted in the name of the ideal of gentleness I believe in. But llhuicamina also acts to serve his ideal. Are we two, after all, that far apart? No. If that recognition is a bitter draught for me to swallow, it is a fit punishment.
He felt a touch on his shoulder just as the sound of footsteps grew louder in the hall outside.
Nine-Lizard’s voice came, soft and urgent. “Tlatoani, I do not know whether you ponder or grieve, but there is no time left. Guards are coming.”
Wise Coyote stumbled to his feet. The scrape of the barrier as it was drawn aside drowned out his words. The two warriors who brought him to the chamber stood in the doorway, but there was a third, a younger man in noble dress with an open, handsome face and a straightforward manner. By the richness of the embroidery on his cloak and loincloth, he clearly outranked the two.
Stepping into the chamber, the young officer ordered the others to untether the old man from the wall. Then he turned, regarded Wise Coyote, and his eyes widened.
“I did not know that Nine-Lizard had such honored visitors,” he said. “Forgive my intrusion. King of Texcoco. My name is Six-Wind. I have been ordered to take this man to the chamber of the girl Mixcatl. She has asked to see him and her wish has been granted, as a ritual favor to the condemned.”
When Nine-Lizard’s tether had been loosened, the young officer Six-Wind turned to the king, indicating the two other warriors. “They will provide your escort back to your quarters, tlatoani.”
“It is my wish to accompany Nine-Lizard to Mixcatl’s chamber,” Wise Coyote said. He saw the scribe start, then catch himself.
Six-Wind hesitated. “My orders were…”
“She would ask to see me if she knew I were here. She was a glyph-painter at my court.” Wise Coyote used his most reasonable tone. “I am sure that your master will not be displeased when he learns that you have obeyed my request.”
“I see no harm in it,” said the young commander, at last. “Very well, then. Come.”
22
The GRINDING SCRAPE of the barrier outside drew Mixcatl from the balcony back inside the preparation chamber. Six-Wind entered, as she expected, and then Nine-Lizard, as she had hoped. She stifled a gasp as a third man appeared and she recognized Wise Coyote.
She turned to both men, trying to damp down the anger that had risen at the sight of Texcoco’s ruler. Why was he here, endangering his own life? Hadn’t he interfered enough? Yet he was a king—she could not ask him to leave.
She went to Nine-lizard and took his wrinkled hands between hers. “I do not remember my father or my grandfather, but it does not matter. You have been more than a teacher to me. Perhaps it is right that we go to Hummingbird’s altar together.”
The grinding sound came again as Six-Wind left the chamber and the guards outside pulled the barrier closed.
“You are not afraid, Mixcatl?” the old man asked.
She paused. “If you would know the truth, Nine-Lizard, I am less afraid of the priest’s knife than I am of living. Each time the beast in me slays the painter, the pain is worse. There is no way for me to live with what I am and no way to reconcile the two sides of my nature.”
She let Nine-Lizard’s hands slip from between her own and tried to say the words gently. “If it is true that Hummingbird needs the strength of my heart, it is best that I give it.”
Nine-Lizard started to speak, then shook his head, as if he dared not say what was on his lips.
“Mixcatl.” The voice was Wise Coyote’s. She turned to face him, narrowing her eyes and folding her arms as he said, “After all we said during your time in Texcoco, do you still believe the Aztecs’ religion?”
“Does it matter what I believe?” she retorted. “My life has done little good. If there is even a chance that my death will serve a need, then I welcome it.”
“You do not have to die,” said Wise Coyote and Mixcatl was startled by the passion in his voice. “You can save yourself if you wish.” He alarmed her by grasping the old scribe by the upper arms and crying out, “Speak to her. Persuade her. I beg you!”
“I cannot, tlatoani,” Mixcatl heard Nine-Lizard reply in a low voice. “I have told you why.”
She stared at both men, bewildered.
Again the king turned to her, something akin to desperation in his deepset eyes. Why was he asking her to release the monster in her that nearly destroyed his son? Before he could speak, she held up her hands, curled her fingers like claws and said softly, “Huetzin.”
Wise Coyote shut his eyes tightly. “The time has come for the truth. I have too much blood on my hands. I will not add yours as well.”
Mixcatl stared at him dumbly. She heard a sharp intake of breath from Nine-lizard. She felt the king’s hands grasp her wrists, and before she could pull away, he said, “Your hands became claws, but they never touched my son.
“Tlatoani,” Nine-lizard began.
“No, listen to me,” Wise Coyote said in a choked voice. “I lied to you. Mixcatl never attacked Huetzin. I did.”
A shock ran through Mixcatl as she stared into the king’s tortured face. Could it have been true? Could Wise Coyote have struck down his own flesh and blood out of desperation or jealousy? Yet his words made all the inconsistencies fall into place. She had often wondered why she couldn’t recall the attack.
“But I thought that you pulled her off your son,” began Nine-Lizard, his brow wrinkling in confusion.
“I did. Not because she was attacking him, but because she was embracing him. Something in me broke. I struck her with a club. I cut his face and hand with a dagger. My son had fainted from fright, so he would not know who maimed him.”
Staring at him, Mixcatl remembered. The blurred, wavering images suddenly became clear. Huetzin had fallen, out of shock and fright. And she, despite the pain and wildness of transformation, had known him and put her forelimbs about him. Not to ravage, but to comfort.
“I loved him,” she whispered. “I could not believe that I had hurt him.”
“My lie made you believe that,” said Wise Coyote.
Nine-lizard cleared his throat, eyeing the king suspiciously. “How can I be certain that your words now are not another untruth? You are twisting and turning to save your life as well as ours.”
“If I am not believed now, I will understand,” answered Wise Coyote sadly.
Mixcatl felt as if a warm light had been kindled inside her, clearing out all the half-truths, lies and fears. “He is speaking the truth,” she said to Nine-lizard. “I know.”
“Then if she recognized the youth, she did not lose herself during the transformation,” Nine-lizard said to the king, his voice rising with excitement. “Which means that she has the power without the taint.”
Wise Coyote nodded.
Mixcatl stared at both, utterly bewildered. What were they saying? That she was not the evil creature she imagined herself to be for so long? Could the jaguar blood within bring aid as well as harm? Was it even possible that the artist and the beast might find a common purpose? She felt suddenly dizzy with renewed hope.
“I know now that you of the Jaguar’s Children are not the only ones who risk losing themselves to the savagery of your own natures,” said the king sorrowfully. “We men have a beast inside far more ruthless and ferocious than the jungle cat.” He turned to Mixcatl. “The lie is ended. You do not need to die. Free yourself and live.”
Mixcatl felt her heart begin to hammer. Dare she reach down inside herself and bring forth the jaguar? She was still afraid. And she had pushed that side away for so long, she wondered if she could even reach it. All the transformations sh
e had gone through had been incomplete, reversing themselves before the jaguar could emerge.
As she stood at the edge of decision. Wise Coyote undid a sash that bound a flat package to his side beneath his cloak. He brought out a bundle and handed it to her. It was unexpectedly heavy. She had to use two hands.
“I brought these,” he said. “I thought you might want to see them again.”
He withdrew to one side of the room, taking Nine-lizard with him so that Mixcatl could have some privacy.
With a puzzled glance at him, she accepted the bundle and undid the wrappings. Nestled together in a bed of soft cloth were the two Olmec statuettes from his library. She knew that they represented different aspects of the Jaguar’s Children.
First, she picked up the solemn guardian who held the grimacing jaguar-human infant. She touched the cleft in the baby’s head and ran her finger along the side of its face. Was this what she had looked like at birth? Had she been ritually carried in and presented to her people by a grave-faced guardian, such as the man depicted in the statue? She shook her head. She would never know unless she found her grandmother or other surviving relatives still living among the Jaguar’s Children.
As she turned the piece over between her hands, she wondered who had shaped it. Though the carving was beautifully done, there was a coldness and a sense of distance to it, as if the artist had looked from afar at something he did not understand and thus feared. The baby had been made demonic in its ugliness while the figure who bore it was stiff and grim, its face empty of any humanity. Was this a true image of the ancients whose descendants were the Jaguar’s Children? Something inside Mixcatl said no.
She replaced the guardian-infant statue and picked up the carving of the Olmec shaman shown in the midst of the change. Now she could see that the shaman’s head was thrown back in a rapture of mixed joy and terror as the skin peeled away showing the emerging beast. Mixcatl wondered if her face had shown the same expression when she transformed. Whoever had sculpted the little figurine knew intimately what the change was like, had experienced the heights and the depths of the dual existence that she had only begun to understand.
She turned the statuette around in her hands as the realization struck her. The unknown hand that had made the figurine belonged to a gifted artist who was also a shape-changer. Someone else had lived with the same conflict between art and animal nature that she now faced. Had that individual managed to reconcile the two?
For a while she doubted the possibility as she held the statuette. The gap between the opposing sides of her own self appeared far too wide to ever be united. Perhaps the unknown artist’s life had been an unending struggle between the two sides and he or she had died early, worn out by the warring within their soul. If so, there was little hope for her.
Yet as she touched the shaman’s face, she felt that this answer was not the truth. The carving showed a controlled grace and dignity that spoke of a mature hand, a life that had been long and well lived. It also spoke of a rejoicing in life and form that showed a spirit still childlike and fresh, undulled by bitterness. The longer she gazed at the piece, the more she became convinced that its creator had found a way to blend what was best in the animal and the human without sacrificing either.
With a deep yearning, she wished she could speak to the long-vanished carver and beg them to reveal their secret. Fate had played a cruel trick on her, to let her be born so long after the flower of her people had faded. What she would have given to be the pupil of this artisan, even if the medium was that of stone and not paint.
Yet she understood that the unknown ancient had given her the most necessary knowledge of all; the fact that one gifted with the jaguar heritage and the artist’s spirit could not only survive but triumph. Even if the path was not laid out for her, she knew that someone else had found or made their way.
Gently she placed the statues back in their cloth wrappings, giving the shaman one last touch.
“I am grateful, tlatoani,” she said softly, returning the bundle to the king. “I did need to see them again.”
Instead of binding the package to his side again, he laid it carefully beneath the jaguar-bench. Precious as the statuettes were, he could not risk being encumbered by the extra weight. The bundle would be safe here and he would return for it when and if he could.
Mixcatl felt Nine-Lizard and Wise Coyote watching her, the same question in their eyes. Could she bring the beast forth and use it to free herself and her companions?
She felt herself begin to shake. The barriers had begun to fall, now that she had learned what had really happened to Huetzin. From the statues, she had gained hope that her art and her jaguar gift might be reconciled. But it was too soon for anyone to ask her to transform. “I do not know if I can. I still do not trust my power. It is too unreliable.”
She saw Wise Coyote look at Nine-Lizard. “Then it is up to you, after all,” the king said.
The old scribe seemed to stand straighter and a fire lit in his eyes.’ ‘Once I swore never again to take on the form of the cat, but I will break that oath for Mixcatl’s sake. Now that I am old, I do not fear death and I am tainted by my own nature and bloodied with killing.”
Mixcatl stared at the old scribe. “You are the same as I am.”
“Not exactly,” Nine-Lizard answered wryly, “for you are the queen our people have been waiting for. Your gift may be erratic now, but it will develop. I am only a failed hope. There is no time to tell the full story,” he said, interrupting her next question. “We must plan what to do next. Six-Wind and the priests will soon be arriving.”
“We may be able to sway Six-Wind to our side,” said Mixcatl. “I knew him at the calmecac, and he is fond of me.”
“Perhaps,” muttered Nine-Lizard, “but his aid is not something we dare depend upon.” He turned to Wise Coyote. “It has been a long time since I took on animal shape, my king. I do not know how fast I can change.”
The king touched a sheathed dagger at his side. “Begin as soon as the guards free us from these walls. I have this and I may be able to take a sword from an unwary warrior.”
Mixcatl could not help staring at Wise Coyote in open amazement. He had caused her so much pain, yet he was willing to fight for her life.
“You court death, tlatoani,” she said.
“Better the clean stroke of a sword than the many pinpricks of betrayal and cowardice,” Wise Coyote answered and added, “if you want my help.”
“Now that I know the truth, I want my life.”
“Then ready yourselves,” said Nine-lizard sharply, as the sound of footsteps outside began and grew louder.
Again the barrier slid aside, letting bright sun spill into the preparation chamber. Mixcatl saw Six-Wind appear, his face solemn, his sword drawn. Behind him stood a semicircle of blackened, wild-haired priests. Their putrid smell, compounded of dried blood and rank hair and skin oils, made her shiver.
Wise Coyote left the chamber first. She heard his voice as he asked Six-Wind to let him accompany the party. The warrior argued, but in the end, he gave in. Nine-Lizard was the next to step out into the sunlight. She saw him tense as he went out and she wondered if he was preparing for transformation. Could he do it and would the distraction he provided be enough to let them escape? She followed Nine-lizard and stood nervously by him as the priests surrounded the two. Wise Coyote stood outside the escort, near Six-Wind.
The black-smeared figures seemed to caper like monkeys as they danced about in triumph and peered into Mixcatl’s face. She shot a quick glance at Nine-Lizard. His eyes were closed, his fists clenched, the veins starting to swell on his neck. She watched in hope and dread, remembering the horror of her own uncompleted transformations, yet knowing that Nine-lizard would offer her a chance to escape—if he could do it.
She felt a spearpoint in her back and heard the order to move. Nine-Lizard fell into step beside her, his eyes now open, but his gaze turned strangely inward. Wise Coyote had told him to begin th
e change as soon as they were free of the chamber, yet he was showing no signs other than intense concentration. She turned her head and saw that the king too was sending Nine-Lizard furtive worried glances.
Mixcatl felt her hopes sinking. He is too old. He has suppressed the beast for too long.
The escort marched the sacrificial victims from the preparation chamber into the huge plaza, full of people. She saw surprised glances as Wise Coyote was recognized and pointed out. Whispers ran through the crowd, questions such as why the king of the neighboring state was in procession with the sacrificial victims. Was he also to be given to Hummingbird?
He probably will be the next one dragged up the steps after Nine-Lizard and I have died, Mixcatl thought, Ilhuicamina will not waste such an opportunity.
She cast another glance at Nine-Lizard, who was swallowing so hard and panting so heavily that the wattles on his neck trembled. Six-Wind and the others in the escort were starting to notice. Several men moved closer to the old scribe, as if fearing that he might be in the throes of some strange illness and would collapse. She watched his struggle with growing alarm.
Nine-Lizard cannot do it.
Mixcatl searched inside herself for the beast that had once been all too eager to emerge. Perhaps the erratic nature of her power was the cause, but her jaguar side seemed distant and lost, as if she had at last managed to drive it from her. Even the fear coursing through her and the blood smell coming from the priests failed to wake it.
The crowd’s roar swelled as the priests brought their captives through. Shouting throngs of people crowded about the base of Hummingbird’s temple-pyramid and overflowed onto the steps. More fingers pointed at Wise Coyote and more mutters came. She feared that he too would be seized and offered if he did not escape.