It was something of a relief to be in the marketplace with my father alone. Mitotiqui was in the calmecac that day. For now at least I did not have to juggle the bad feelings of one against the good opinion of the other.
As we approached the traders, they began to call out to my father.
“Oquitchli! See here! I have fine black obsidian – very rare.”
“I have pearls from the distant shores – only the highest quality for you, Oquitchli.”
“Oquitchli! I have an amber here that you would trade your mother for!”
My father gave a rueful laugh. We both knew he had not exchanged a word with his mother since his choice of bride had so offended her. “By all the gods, I believe I would trade her for a grain of salt!” he muttered to me. But he extended his hand for the amber and began to examine it.
It was a fine stone, and as my father turned it over my palms tingled with excitement. A piece of great splendour could be worked around such a jewel!
My father seemed pleased and began to talk over the price with Popotl the trader, first giving the stone to me. Popotl raised his eyebrows in surprise, but said nothing.
I weighed the gem, still warm from my father’s touch, in my hand. It was beautiful, as large as a chicken’s egg and suffused with a rich, honeyed glow. And yet a prickle stirred the hairs on my neck. Something was amiss. I held it to the light, examining it minutely. It seemed perfect, and yet some instinct told me to continue. I twisted it slowly in the sunlight, and – yes, I was right! A tiny fissure ran through the stone. If it was worked, the gem would crack in two.
My father was about to complete the transaction. I hesitated, not knowing how to speak in front of the trader, for I – a girl – should hold my tongue in the presence of men. I laid my hand upon my father’s arm and gave a slight pull. He turned, frowning.
“Is something the matter, Itacate?” he said coldly.
“There is a flaw,” I answered quietly.
“Show me.”
My father studied the gem, holding it to the light as I had done, and then handed it back to the trader, saying, “Sadly, Popotl, your stone is blemished.”
I kept my eyes lowered while Popotl examined his amber. After a long pause he spoke. “You are right, Oquitchli. I had not seen it. My most sincere apologies. I did not intend to sell you inferior goods.” He bowed respectfully to my father, his glance flicking nervously towards the raised platform where the council was gathered. These men had the duty of overseeing the market, ensuring that all was sold in the correct place and at the correct price. Penalties for those caught cheating were high: a dishonest merchant would be shamed, perhaps even stoned, if his crime was great.
My father chose to believe Popotl’s mistake was genuine. “No matter,” he said. “What else can you show me?”
More stones were produced, and these my father also gave to me for my inspection. At last we purchased what he needed: nothing so spectacular as the amber, but all gems of fine quality.
We made our way through the crowds without speaking. Along the canal, over the bridge that spanned it. As we journeyed homewards, my father stopped walking and turned to face me.
“I did not see the fault in the amber,” he said thoughtfully. “Indeed, I did not even know you were right until Popotl confirmed it.”
I said nothing, but was astonished at my father’s sudden trust in me. I also wondered with some alarm what would have happened if Popotl had not admitted the flaw.
“It seems your eyes see more than mine these days, Itacate. I think I must make use of them for grading the stones I work with. I would like your help for a short time in the mornings. Will you mind being taken from the kitchen?”
It was but a small lessening of my domestic burden, yet much discipline, much self-control, it took to prevent myself crying out with joy. I kept my eyes lowered until I could compose my features into a suitable expression.
“No, Father,” I said humbly. “I shall be happy to aid you however you wish.”
He nodded, content, and walked onwards. Again I followed, but now my blood thrilled. Sad though I was that my father’s sight had dimmed with age, I felt like a slave who had touched the palace walls and gained freedom. To be invited into my father’s workshop – to have my assistance sought – was like having a new life spread out before me, and the sight of it was glorious.
My father did not go straight home, but wandered awhile through Tlaltelolco. He had stopped and turned to speak to me once more when I smelt smoke. I was not alone; suddenly everyone in the crowded street looked towards the temple.
With no warning and no apparent cause, it was violently ablaze. As we watched, wings of flame rushed from the doors of the sacred shrine that topped the pyramid and flared into the sky. For a moment, I was immobilized with shock, but screams of “Bring water!”, “Fill jars!”, “Put it out!” and “The temple must not burn!” brought me to my senses.
With so many people dousing the fire – it seemed everyone who heard the cries ran to help – surely the building would be saved? A woman came from her house, a jar under each arm. Taking one from her, I filled it from the canal and ran up the steps, throwing my water on the flames. They only seemed to leap higher in response.
I sped back to the canal. Two, three, four times I scaled those steep steps, and each time the blaze grew stronger. The frantic crowd continued to work, but it was in vain. Although the pyramid streamed with water – my clothes were drenched – the fire would not be put out. At last the throng of people was beaten back by the terrible heat. Stone crumbled like charcoal and with a great crash the temple fell.
Following that heated roar came a deathlike silence broken only by the sound of blood pounding in my ears. I stared at the smoking ruin, sick with fear at what it might mean.
For then the crowd began to whisper of what – or who – had caused the gods such offence that they would strike the shrine in this way. My heart chilled. The deity whose temple now lay in ruins was Tezcatlipoca, the very god whose image I had scratched upon the terracotta tiles of my home.
The fire I had struggled to douse was not the only disaster to befall Tenochtitlán at that time. Some days later, a second temple in the south of the city – that of the god Quetzalcoatl – was struck by a bolt from the sky and burst into flames. I did not see it happen, but word of it spread like a chilling breeze, causing men’s brows to furrow and women to whimper softly with fear. There had been no storm, no preceding rumble of thunder, and so it was whispered that the temple had been hit with a blow from the sun. Why the gods should thus turn on each other was a mystery no priest could explain, but there could be no doubt it boded ill.
After that came a day of bright, brilliant sunshine. The sky was clear, the air crisp, with a biting edge that warned of the winter to come. With some determination, I laid aside my own anxiety, telling myself sternly that nothing could happen on a day of such beauty. Taking the honey I had drawn from our rooftop hives, I went alone to the lakeside to barter. Mitotiqui had expressed a desire to eat fresh fish, and I sorely wanted to soothe his ruffled temper.
The fisherman I was used to trading with was in his canoe, some distance from the shore. I would wait for his return. The day was lovely, the lake calm; I welcomed the chance to enjoy a little tranquillity. For too long, it seemed, my heart had been unsettled. Solitude would ease away my troubles.
Sitting myself down beside the lake in the shade of the willows, I watched the fisherman cast his net as if it were a weightless thing. I knew well that it was not. Once – long ago – he had let Mitotiqui and me try the skill for ourselves. Standing on the ground, we had barely been able to lift the complex construction of knotted twine from the earth. If we had attempted such a thing in a canoe we would certainly have toppled overboard. How he had laughed to see us struggling, tangling ourselves in the net like a large catch! I smiled to recall it.
Moments later the fisherman hauled, hand over hand, pulling his net out with ease, the scales o
f many fish glinting silver in the sun. But as I watched, the distant fish became so dazzling that I had to blink hard, shutting my eyes against their glare. When I opened them, it was no better. The whole lake seemed suddenly ablaze. In the blinding light I could barely trace the fisherman’s outline. He stood frozen in his canoe, back bent, head tilted skywards in awe of the spectacle above him.
I looked up, and expelled a sharp cry. I backed away, desperately looking for a place to run, to hide. But where could I run? How could I hide from the sky itself? For above me a ball of fire was tearing across the heavens. Larger than the sun, it lit the world below so brightly that I was seared by its brilliance. It split the sky, ripping it apart and leaving a black wound to mark its passing. Then it fell where the sun rises, trailing a shower of sparks like a hail of red-hot coals.
It took less time to pass than it takes to roll a tortilla. When it was gone, a dreadful quiet remained. I could see no one but myself and the fisherman, but I could feel the sense of horror rising from the city behind me as strong as the heat of summer. After the last spark came to earth it was as though every inhabitant stood mouth open, unable to speak. Then, with one breath, all began to gabble at once. From the edge of the water where I stood, the fearful chatter seemed almost visible, hanging like smoke above the buildings.
The spell was broken.
The fisherman rowed to shore, but when he reached me I saw that his boat was empty. He had lost both catch and net, letting them slip through his fingers as he watched, rigid with terror.
Another incident then occurred which was of longer duration than the ball of fire, and caused much hardship.
After the harvest, when the chinampa fields lay stripped and bare and the maize was dried and stored for winter, a high wind sprang up from a sky that had been perfectly clear and still. In moments it had lashed the lake into a boiling frenzy, stirring up a great wave and driving it towards the city.
I knew nothing of its approach. It was so unexpected, so sudden, that no one had time to give warning. Only when I heard Mayatl’s scream of alarm did I turn to see a wall of water surging from the street into our kitchen, picking up reed mats as though they were leaves, sweeping aside cooking vessels, dousing the brazier and pushing it into the courtyard, through my father’s chamber and into the workshop beyond. Mayatl stood unmoving, stiff with shock. Wading through the waist-high flood, I seized her hand and pulled her awkwardly up the stairs to the roof. My father – drenched, the necklet he had been working on still clasped in his fist – joined us. From our vantage point we could see that the wave had washed over the fields and destroyed the mud-brick walls of the peasants’ dwellings across the canal. While we watched, the water rushed on towards the heart of the city, where my brother would be sitting at his classes.
It was a dreadful sight, but even more dreadful were the words my father then uttered.
“And now it seems Tlaloc is also roused to anger.”
“But why?” I whispered. “What can have so displeased him?”
My father did not answer me directly, but spoke aloud the thoughts in his head that filled my own heart with foreboding. “First we had fire; now comes a flood. I fear the earth itself is becoming unmade…”
Deeply alarmed though we were by this incident, our own house was built of stone so it suffered little real damage. Mitotiqui came home from the calmecac in a canoe, bobbing into our courtyard with a smile upon his face as if the episode was nothing more than a prank played by the gods for their own amusement. His levity grated on my father. We were uncomfortable that night, and the nights that followed, for we had to sleep on the roof amongst the beehives and potted herbs. But our physical discomfort seemed small and insignificant beside the tension that crackled between father and son.
Each portent, each strange happening, each untimely occurrence, was answered by our priests with ever greater sacrifices, for the gods were angered and might perhaps be soothed with blood. The numbers of slaves the traders brought to market grew, and they could be seen daily being led through the streets to the principal temple, where their hearts were given up to appease the gods. We were urged to increase our private devotions: priests went about the city punishing those they considered less than pious; and in every household, men drew their own blood before their shrines. My father could be seen each morning at dawn pricking his flesh with cactus thorns and smearing our idols until red almost blotted out the gleaming gold.
These zealous prayers seemed answered. The flood was followed by a time of calm, and yet the general unease continued. Men stood at every street corner gnawing their lips, and passing women stared fearfully at the ground, their faces creased with anxiety. For at heart we all knew that if the fifth age were truly drawing to a close, no amount of prayer or sacrifice could stop it.
In the great square of Tlaltelolco, each incident had been greeted with dismay and fearful speculation.
But one day Mayatl brought home a tale tucked neatly amongst the fresh vegetables to which I could give no credence. Setting her basket down, she declared, “They say floating temples have been seen!”
“Floating temples?” My incredulous gasp gave her great satisfaction. Her eyes gleamed with the delight of knowing something I did not. “How can such a thing be possible? Where were they?”
“On the sea. In the land of the Maya. Great white pyramids, moving across the water.”
I related Mayatl’s words to my father when he ate, but he grunted scornfully. “Travellers’ tales, from men who have eaten too many mushrooms. Pay no heed.”
And yet the rumours did not go away, but multiplied until the city swarmed with them. It was impossible to go to market – impossible to venture anywhere – without hearing stories that grew more elaborate with each passing day.
“They say beasts half man, half deer have trodden on the distant shore.”
“The Mayans speak of their magical powers.”
“They have a great pole that makes a noise as loud as thunder! With one blast it will fell a tree!”
“Destroy a mountain!”
“Wipe out an army!”
Unease soured the air, making each indrawn breath taste bitter on the tongue. I could scarcely believe such far-fetched imaginings, yet my own heart stirred with a strange excitement at hearing these stories. They were so like the inventions that Mitotiqui and I had dreamt up as children, I could not resist their appeal. I relished their tang, as I savoured the spicy heat of chilli, and I repeated them at each mealtime to entertain my family. But my brother was morose and sullen, and my father dismissive.
“Strangers are amongst the Maya,” I ventured.
“Strangers?” My father gave a wry laugh. “How could any distinguish a stranger in that land? Who could be more peculiar than a Mayan?”
I smiled briefly at his remark. The Mayans flattened the foreheads of their babies from birth, and hung beads above their cradles so that their eyes grew crossed. Certainly this race looked alien and exotic to the eyes of those from Tenochtitlán.
And yet I persisted. “They say the strangers have pale skin. At the market the talk is of little else.”
“Women must always have something to gossip about, Itacate. They pile untruth on untruth until they have made a monster of nothing. There can be no such strangers. It is not possible. Our emperor rules the whole world. Where could they come from? It is folly even to think such a thing could happen.”
Thus dismissed, I said no more about the matter. Not to my father. But with Mayatl I talked until my tongue was dry. The tales lingered in my head and I could not be free of them. I put them aside only when my father made a proposal that drove all thoughts of strangers far from my mind.
My father wished me to work alongside him as his apprentice. He was ageing, and though his eyes were well able to view distant objects, he struggled to focus on what was close to his face. The small detail of the objects he crafted had become increasingly blurred and hazy.
There was great danger in yield
ing to his wish. To step outside our city’s conventions could bring misfortune or even death. If a merchant offended the nobility by mimicking their style of dress, he could be condemned to slavery. If a common man drank the intoxicating pulque reserved for priests and nobles, he could be executed. I knew not what penalty might be inflicted on a father who allowed his daughter to aid his work, or on a girl who agreed to help him, but had no doubt that it would be severe. It was vital that I work in secrecy; I could tell no one. Not Mayatl. Not even Mitotiqui. They must think my father required my company, nothing else.
I had already left off my kitchen tasks, but now the remainder of my domestic duties were passed to a grumbling Mayatl. Daily I crossed the threshold of my father’s chamber, passing through it to the rear courtyard, and across that to his workshop. It was a journey of a few short steps, but how far it took me from my old life! My heart joyed to have constant access to a room of such wonders, even as it sorrowed to keep this secret from my brother.
To begin with, my father had simply wished for a helper to grade stones, for he could no longer see the marks and fissures that divided inferior gems from those of higher quality. I found the finest for him, but one morning as I did so could not resist speaking of what it might become.
“Would this not make a fine headdress?” I asked tentatively, holding up a clear and perfect jade.
“Set how?” he said, taking the stone.
“High above the head. So the sun will shine through and illuminate the colour.”
The Goldsmith's Daughter Page 4