“You were right,” I whisper to Lali. “Ichtaca did give me a key. I had it in my pouch all along.”
She doesn’t say, “I told you so,” this time. She just smiles and it makes me feel as if I have wings on my feet. Almost flying. Almost free.
The temples of Purépecha are not like the pyramids of Tenochtitlan. They look more like pulque bottles, round and bulbous at the bottom before rising into a funnel-like stem.
“These are our famous Yácatas,” Zolan whispers proudly.
Never heard of them. But I don’t say it. I’m embarrassed to admit how little I know about my home and I’m not going to give Lali something new to tease me about. Not in my moment of triumph.
With two hands, the soldier lifts the heavy metal ring on the temple door.
Rap. Rap. Tap. Tap.
The great slab of oak swings open to reveal a long, dark corridor. Flames flicker and burn in earthenware containers hanging from the walls. This is a place of shadows. A place of magic and power. Lali and Zolan feel it too as instinctively we bunch closer together. Even Dog huddles against my leg.
“Come. I have been expecting you.”
How did he know we were here? A good priest is a clever magician, Ichtaca told me.
“Come closer.” The voice rises like a hurricane to fill the gloom with authority and drag us towards its dark, malevolent centre.
The jaguar inside me doesn’t want to go. But it’s a warning I have to ignore. The time has come to deliver my message, to stand firm no matter how hard the wind might blow against me. This is our journey’s end.
On a raised platform at the far end of the corridor is a tall figure in a flowing crimson tunic. Gold bands encircle his wrists, round and round, until the clasp rises in a snake’s head. About to strike. Lethal.
The soldier drops face flat against the floor.
“Give the disc to me,” the voice orders.
How did he know about the disc?
The soldier rises and passes my token to the High Priest of Tzintzuntzan. He rubs it between his fingers, nods and tucks it into his waist pouch. A great mask hides his face but his shaggy hair is clotted with grime. His fingers are narrow, the long nails stained brown with dried blood. His sandals are caked in it too. That doesn’t bother me. Ichtaca was no different. At times of sacrifice, the floor is covered in blood and the priest stands in the middle. Cutting and slicing, stacking the hearts in the sacred stone receptacles.
It is the mask that makes me nervous. You can always tell friend from foe by looking into their eyes. When I look into Lali and Zolan’s eyes I see loyalty and trust. In Dog’s too. This man offers nothing but an empty wooden stare. There’s no friendship in that.
Red-robed arms reach towards us in greeting. “Welcome, Ichtaca’s children.” The voice vibrates with power. Ominous. Earth-shaking.
We bow. Even as a slave, I never bowed to Ichtaca. Only to the Serpent-Sun god itself. But here in this huge empty chamber, the High Priest’s greeting weighs heavy on our shoulders, pushing us to the floor. Like the soldier before us.
“Rise,” the voice commands. “Speak.”
Fear is cold. Colder than the buckets of water Ollin and I tipped over each other for fun. Colder than the water on the lake bottom where sometimes I would hold my breath and lie in wait for a fish. Deathly cold. The time to play has long gone.
I step forward. “I am Atl of the Serpent-Sun Temple in Tenochtitlan. I come bearing the High Priest Ichtaca’s message.” My voice falters as I struggle to find words humble enough to move a proud heart. “Our High Priest begs you to send your illustrious armies to help him. He pleads with you to put aside our city’s past differences, else this land will be lost to the pale invaders.”
“So Tenochtitlan would open her gates to the armies of her greatest enemy?”
“We are truly desperate. Temples are burning and the bodies of our people are piling up at their doors. Our children lie impaled on Spanish lances. You must help or Purépecha will fall next.”
“You are hardly in a position to give me orders, boy.” Like thunder, the High Priest’s voice cracks, thick and threatening.
I hang my head apologetically. I’ll grovel if I have to. “I did not mean to offend. This humble messenger is filled with despair. I was born in Purépecha and I am afraid for my birth people too.”
He pulls at his dirty beard. “Tenochtitlan is not a friend of ours but Ichtaca’s word has always been held in great esteem. I will consult the Council of Priests and you shall have your answer by mid-sun tomorrow.” The High Priest turns to leave.
“But help is needed now. Immediately,” I protest. “We have braved crocodiles, jaguars, the mountain, night’s terrors and even Mexica’s soldiers to deliver this message.”
I remember the last time I stood in Ichtaca’s temple. The flames. The screams. The smell of blood and people dying. I should have run faster.
Boldly, I brave the greatest danger so far: the High Priest’s anger. “We can’t wait another half day.” I clutch at the edge of his cloak but the soldier knocks my hand away. What can I do to change the High Priest’s mind? “You must listen,” I implore. “People are dying.”
But the High Priest is not persuaded. My words are tossed like leaves into the hurricane. Blown quickly away. He turns and sweeps haughtily from the room. My fingers fumble for the familiar comfort of my token but even that is denied. The priest has taken it with him.
The soldier leads us down the corridor and outside again. “You will be allowed to re-enter the temple at noon tomorrow. For now, you are free to go.
“Go where?” I ask.
He shrugs – we’re not his problem any more. He leaves us standing on the steps in the dark. No steam bath. No banquet of pan-fried fish. Not even a place to sleep.
Dog nips the back of my calf and trots down the steps. This way.
“I think Dog knows where to go,” I say.
Dog leads us from the city centre and its Yácata temples. Our noses soon fill with the sting of salt and the marshy scent of fish. At the edge of the city the paved streets unravel into dirt paths. Despite the late hour, workmen nod and smile. Here the people are poor and strangers are welcome for the night.
We spread our blankets on the ground under the winking lights of the Cloud Snake stars. One more evening out in the open.
At least we don’t have to worry about the Captain this time.
“Will you ever return to Tenochtitlan?” I ask Lali.
“No,” she says. “I have a new family. I have two brothers.” She turns to Zolan. “What about you? Are your parents really dead?”
“They are to me.”
“I’ve got no one either. Except you two,” I say.
We sit in exhausted silence. It’s been a long day. Sleep prowls on cat-like feet to snare us in its jaws.
Morning is a bustle of activity, rich with the smell of food and the song of boat crews celebrating a good night’s fishing on the lake. Lali produces two gold beads from her pouch.
“My father was not a miser,” she says. “He gladly paid as long as someone else looked after me.”
After all the trouble he has given us, he at least owes us a hearty breakfast.
The beads purchase three pan-fried fish. My stomach is filling but doubt still gnaws a hole in the bottom of it.
“What if the priests decide not to help us?” I ask.
“We could ask the Night Owl for assistance,” suggests Zolan. He lays his owl feather reverently in his palm.
“We’ve done it before,” Lali agrees. “It worked then.”
They look at me for support. I was the one who hesitated last time. But I’m desperate now and the Night Wind owes me a wish. Maybe heaven will help us. I nod my head.
We walk to the market square outside the temple to buy the things we need. A woven basket, hot glowing rocks and incense that smells like pine needles. The seller waves us into a small booth where we can perform our offering in private.
Lali lights an ince
nse stick and the forest wraps around us, green and growing, deep and powerful. Inside me the jaguar purrs contentedly at the familiar surroundings.
As I take the spotted pelt from my pack, the great cat watches with interest. Will it stay with me after I have turned its fur to ash?
Of course. We don’t need that, it murmurs lazily. I am bound to you forever. It closes its amber eyes to sleep.
“Eagle’s sight.” Lali places her feather on top of the pelt.
“Owl’s wisdom,” says Zolan, adding his feather.
“Ears of the jaguar.” I sprinkle the incense over the three items and lift our offering into the basket. It is a gift of great value. There is nothing more precious than what you really wanted to keep forever.
We kneel hopefully. Soon we will know if our prayers have been answered.
CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE
THE CAPTAIN
Like a shadow, Huemac pins himself to the city wall. He slips inside the gate as it opens for the farmers heading out to the corn fields.
It’s all too easy. How could his army fail to defeat a city that cannot even protect itself from one man? If the sentry was under Huemac’s command, he would be dead by now.
Maybe I should teach that one a lesson. Huemac’s foot throbs hot and fierce. It is the Serpent-Sun god’s reminder that the task is not yet complete and the Captain has no time for distractions. No matter how tempting they are.
First, he needs a disguise. The water carrier doesn’t hear the eagle hunting its prey as he scurries along the laneway. He doesn’t cry out as the talons reach around his neck. His eyes bulge. His breath splutters. His clothing is a perfect fit.
“Which is the quickest way to the temple?” he asks a street vendor. “I am new to this task and do not want to risk the High Priest’s wrath.”
He follows the crone’s pointing finger. Too, too easy.
It has been a slow, painful journey. The children are already inside the city. Maybe already in the temple. The boy thinks he has escaped. That he is home and free. But the Hummingbird High Priest will listen to the eagle’s voice. The priest will know Huemac is telling the truth. Just as Nuxal, the merchant, had heard of the pale lord’s treachery, the news will have reached Tzintzuntzan too.
The boy must bleed.
Huemac will convince the priest to release his daughter so she can return to Tenochtitlan bearing the message of Tzintzuntzan’s generosity. Citlali deserves a second chance.
Huemac has a warrior’s heart and he knows he will not be allowed to leave. Purépecha will not forgive the past. His life will soon be over but it doesn’t matter. Nenetl will be waiting for him.
Huemac will die a hero, the saviour of two cities, even though only one will hail him. He will descend the seven steps to heaven and look down upon the crowds who chant his name in celebration.
Life is good. Death promises to be even better.
CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO
TEMPLE TREACHERY
The soldier guides us down the temple corridor and into a room beside the High Priest’s platform. Outside the midmorning sunshine is warm and inviting, but here in the temple, the gloom descends quickly. It’s hard to feel hopeful with its dark weight pushing our spirits down.
In the middle of the room is a stone statue of the Serpent-Sun god. Just like the one in Ichtaca’s temple.
“Wait here,” the soldier instructs. “The Council of Priests will call you when it is ready.”
We wait but no one comes.
The air is thick and heavy. Stifling. Like the calm before a storm. Inside me the jaguar paces warily.
“What’s keeping them?” I ask. My stomach ties itself in small worry knots.
“Perhaps they’re still deciding,” Lali says.
“Perhaps they need to consult the king,” suggests Zolan.
They’ve had all afternoon, all night and all morning. How long does it take?
Lali presses her face hard against the wall opposite the door. “I think the priests are in the next room.”
“You should listen with your jaguar ears, Atl,” says Zolan. “Then we will know what they are saying.”
“If you do not listen, you will die,” the golden eagle warned me.
I don’t want to die, so I quickly place my ear against the wall. Through the mud brick I hear chairs scraping on the stone floor and muffled voices raised in animated debate. It doesn’t sound as if a decision has been made.
The blur of noise sharpens into words as I pick out the voices of three priests. The High Priest, deep and commanding. A second voice, rich with honey. I imagine its owner. A big man who probably likes corn cakes as much as me. He laughs a lot and instinctively, I like him. The last priest’s tone is clipped and angry. I don’t like him at all.
“It is a good omen that Ichtaca sent the children to us,” the High Priest says.
Hurrah. They are going to help us!
“The children are brave and clever. Ichtaca chose well,” adds the big, friendly man.
“What are they saying?” Lali demands.
“Shhh.” I put my finger to my lips. “They are discussing how wonderful we are but I can’t hear if you keep talking.”
“Only three very special children could travel from Tenochtitlan to Purépecha on their own,” my big friend says. “They are the answer to our problem.”
“I don’t agree,” the angry voice snaps. So he’s the reason we’re still waiting here for an answer.
“We must think of Purépecha first,” insists the High Priest.
I don’t mind that. Their priorities don’t matter to me, as long as they help us.
“I think you are making a big mistake,” the angry voice says.
Doesn’t he realise people are dying while he wastes time arguing?
“I won’t be part of this. Ichtaca is our friend.” The angry voice is furious now.
“Ichtaca is a dedicated priest and has provided what we need to survive this threat to our cities. To triumph, we must show the gods respect by honouring the children,” the corn cake voice says.
I smile. Our time has finally come.
“They are indeed exceptional,” the High Priest says. I grin. He’s right about that. “And I have made my decision,” he continues. Not a moment too soon. “We must sacrifice them all. This afternoon, before the sun sets. The gods will be pleased and we will be spared.”
I can hardly believe my ears.
“I ask only one thing in return for my information,”says a new voice. It’s chilling and familiar – the Captain of the Temple Guard!
The knots in my stomach cramp tighter than ever.
“What’s wrong?” Lali asks.
Zolan looks alarmed too. “Your face is white.”
“They’re going to sacrifice us,” I whisper. “They think our death will please the gods and save them from the Spanish lords. The Captain is with them.”
“He’s alive.” Relief floods Lali’s face.
I’m not so sure that’s a good thing. I place my ear back against the wall. The Captain is speaking again.
“The sacrifice of the boys will please the sun god and help drive the pale lords back into the sea, but I ask you to release the girl. Send her to tell Tenochtitlan of the great deed you have done. She will ensure my people sing the praises of their Purépechan allies.”
“The Captain has asked them to pardon Lali,” I whisper.
“That’s good,” says Zolan. “At least one of us is safe.”
Lali crosses her arms. “I don’t want any favours from my father. I’m not leaving.”
“You have to,” I insist. “You can bring help.”
“Don’t be silly, Atl. You know that won’t be possible,” she says. “We’re in this together. I’m staying.”
We tried so hard. We ran so fast. And now we’re all going to die.
On the other side of the wall the High Priest’s voice is raised in anger. “Purépecha owes you nothing.”
Thump. The jaguar hears the e
agle cry out in alarm.
“Foolish Mexica soldier,” the big priest sneers. “We did him a favour after all. Look at that leg. His wound would see him to a painful death within days.”
“They’ve killed the Captain,” I murmur.
Lali bites her shaking lip, her face pale. “My father didn’t deserve to die like this. He was trying to save his people from the Spanish invaders. Even Purépecha should honour that.” She sniffs. “He tried to save me too.”
“The priests said he had a badly infected flesh wound. That he would have died in a few days,” I say, trying to help.
Lali sniffs even louder. “If I had known, maybe I could have helped him.”
This time I know what to do if she cries. I’ll hold her close and tell her how brave she is. Zolan will help me.
But Lali’s eyes don’t fill with tears. They flame in anger. “I won’t let the Purépechans kill my brothers as well as my father.”
Zolan and I hug her anyway. Dog licks at our ankles. We’re in this together.
CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE
THE CAPTAIN
The haze of red pain rages through Huemac’s chest. It spreads like fire across his eyes and roars into his ears. Mouth filling with his own blood, he knows this life is over. Too soon, he murmurs. Huemac is not afraid to die. He is just not ready yet. His mission is not complete.
Crack. His skull strikes the stone floor. Huemac lies motionless, his head ringing with the talk of traitors.
Who will place a stone in my mouth? he panics. How will I find my way to heaven?
Then he remembers Citlali’s birthstone, nestled inside his belt. She left it for him to find. His daughter’s forgiveness has set him free. He is ready to die after all.
When the owl calls Huemac’s name his eagle cry screeches in proud response.
On the Yácata window ledge, the great eagle perches, her eyes trained on the room below. She watches over the fallen warrior who fought so valiantly under her banner. Towards the end, he strayed from the true path, as men often do. His heart was not always good but he tried hard.
The man’s cry is answered as the great eagle shrieks. “This one will be redeemed. This one will fly free.”
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