by Zoe Saadia
“Behind those things?” The calmecac boy dropped his voice to a loud whisper, still heard quite clearly despites the shouts and the clanking of pottery ensuing from behind the high crumbling wall.
“Yes.” Chantli slowed her step, losing some of her good-natured forcefulness all of a sudden. “Over there, where the light is flickering. Behind this low fence.”
“Some fence,” muttered Axolin. “They invested in this wall, eh? I don’t think they’ll appreciate our trying to sneak in.”
“We can see if the gate is open,” suggested Chantli in a surprisingly small voice. “Maybe… if it is…”
“Well, it is or it isn’t.” Clearly arriving at the decision, Necalli gestured them to shut up. “Either way, it’s about me and the working boy. So we will go and try to talk our way in. The rest of you stay outside. Or better yet, go back home.”
“I’ll go in with you two.” As expected, Axolin was not about to abandon them, given permission to do so or not. “The priests may want to question me. I fought that thing together with you.”
“And I –” began Chantli hotly, but this time, they all turned toward her.
“You are going home, and by the safest route possible. Patli will take you.” The direfully squinted eyes rested on the resentful youth, gleaming with dark promise. “You take her home and you make sure she is safe before you scamper off to your telpochcalli. Even if it takes you half a night to do that. Otherwise, you better not show your face anywhere around Tenochtitlan at all.”
“I was going to do that anyway!” cried out Patli, offended. For good measure, he took a step back. “She is my cousin. I wouldn’t let her find her way back alone and at night.”
“One never knows with your type,” muttered Necalli, not pacified, squashing the telpochcalli boy with his glance. “And if she is not safe by midnight…”
“Don’t talk about me as though I’m not there,” protested Chantli, looking fierce and indeed very pretty in the light of the flickering torch. Her eyes glowered at them all, Patli included. “Unlike you all, I can find my way back!”
Miztli slipped around the temple’s corner before they could see him rolling his eyes.
The torches glowed eerily in the gloomy semidarkness, the strong smell of copal overwhelming, overcoming the other stench, that heavy aroma typical to large temples. It made the clubs pounding inside his head redouble their efforts, his fingers rigid around the slickness of his obsidian talisman, going numb from the force by which they clutched the precious amulet. Oh, but he needed a gulp of a fresh air, at least one single gulp.
The calmecac boy was squirming on the stone floor, trying to withstand the treatment with his dignity still intact. Not a simple feat of endurance. The glowing coals did nothing to calm the swollen, inflamed, raw flesh. As it appeared, they did exactly the opposite.
“Would they stop torturing him already?” Axolin’s voice shook as he leaned closer, pressing his palms together, fingers interwoven, his knuckles white.
Miztli shrugged helplessly, afraid to say a word, lest the priests would remember him and his head. Earlier, after being allowed to retell their tale, and while being hastened toward the altar, demanded to offer some of their own blood to the mighty Tlaloc, all three of them, given large maguey thorns to pierce their earlobes and bleed on the polished stone, his own head was examined as thoroughly as the arm of the bitten boy, resulting in a thorough washing with water and then liquid ointment that stung. No one said a word about the coal treatment back then.
Nauseated, he glanced at the darkness of the opening that was shimmering eerily behind the clouds of incense, swimming before his eyes. If he didn’t manage to get there soon enough, he would vomit all over the stony floor, he knew. He wouldn’t be able to hold it in for much longer. Not with the strangled groans of the calmecac boy.
“He is smearing things on his arm now,” whispered Axolin, apparently set on reporting the events. “It’s over. I think.”
“It is?” It felt impolite to respond with nothing but shrugging. He forced his eyes to the crouching priests, one middle-aged and neatly robed, operating with cloths, bowls, and coals; the other young and simply dressed, occupied mainly with pinning their victim to the floor. An apprentice? Necalli was still struggling to break free but with less determination than before. How terribly painful it must be! Another priest, an elder clad in a black foul-smelling gown as opposed to the neat garments of the other two, was chanting, waving a smoking bowl, spreading clouds of copal. Miztli swallowed his nausea back, taking his eyes away.
“He won’t manage to walk on his own, not after this.” Axolin was clenching and unclenching his fists, his sandaled foot tapping an impatient refrain. “You’ll have to help me bring him back to school.”
“And how am I to find my way back afterwards?” He could not help glaring at his companion, his nausea forgotten.
“I don’t know. You’ll manage.”
“Or maybe you’ll manage.”
His glare was returned redoubled. “Watch your tongue!”
He tried not to roll his eyes again. “Leave me alone.”
“You are asking for a good beating.”
“I don’t care.”
The younger priest was helping Necalli up, pulling him into a sitting position with little consideration. However, the calmecac boy seemed eager to cooperate. An encouraging revelation. They didn’t dare move closer or try to offer their help.
“You will return to the temple of Revered Tlaloc tomorrow, with an offering of food or clothing,” the older priest was saying, looking at no one in particular, busy collecting his tools. “And you will do it no later than midmorning.”
“But…” began Axolin, then fell silent as promptly, quailing under the younger priest’s gaze.
“We are not allowed to leave school before Father Sun is well on his way toward the other world.” From his brighter spot upon the semidarkness of the floor, Necalli’s voice came with surprising firmness considering his previous ordeal and his current unsteady stance. Crouching in a strange pose of someone caught in the act of getting up or maybe falling down, he evidently paused in his efforts, propped on his good arm, as though gathering his strength for proceeding with his attempt to gain an upright position. Miztli held his breath.
“You will be allowed when you tell your superiors of the adventure you got yourself into,” said the older priest icily, evidently not appreciating being answered back. “The punishment you’ll receive has nothing to do with your debt to the Revered Tlaloc.”
Biting his lips, their calmecac spokesman said nothing, returning to his struggle to get up unaided. But this one had his share of courage! Miztli fought his urge to come to the struggling youth’s aid no longer.
Slipping along the damp stones, he crouched next to the wavering form, offering his own shoulder as a prop, noting that his gesture didn’t go unappreciated. The alacrity with which it was grabbed, clutched in a crushing grip along with the weight of his companion that was suddenly upon him, told him that. A considerable weight. They evidently ate well out there in that mysterious calmecac school.
“Don’t forget to let the priests examine your arm again,” repeated the younger assistant, watching them with a measure of compassion. “When you go to the temple with your offerings, tell its priests of what happened. They still can give you much trouble, those wounds.” A light frown. “You too, young man. Your head didn’t get hurt as badly, but if it still aches by tomorrow or the day after, go to your local healers and ask for their help.”
They mumbled their thanks, eager to escape the suffocating closeness now, stumbling toward the outside, spilling out and into the cool nightly air as though surfacing from under the water. What bliss!
“How do you feel?” asked Axolin in surprisingly small voice, supporting their wounded companion from the other side now, careful not to touch the bandaged limb.
“Lousy,” was their laconic answer. “If you’ll keep dragging me like that, I’ll v
omit all over you two.”
They stopped in unison, too abruptly, wavering and fighting to keep their balance. The next thing they knew, their charge was on his knees, retching wildly, choking with the intensity of it. Fighting the nausea, Miztli tried to remain supportive, not successful at his attempts to do so. It was difficult to hold on against his own need to retch, without the cumbersome position all three of them crouched in now, half lying, propped by their own limbs, battered and exhausted, in dire need of respite from it all.
“Let’s just get away from here,” groaned Axolin, struggling to drag his friend back to his feet. Done vomiting, Necalli was still spitting, cursing faintly, not eager to leave the support of the dusty ground. However, a few silhouettes drawing from the surrounding alleys, attracted by the noise probably, made them all strengthen in alert. Not the type one meets in the daytime. Miztli rushed to help Axolin along.
“What are you doing here, boys? Fighting?” One of the men spat upon the ground, having done with the greenish sprout he had been evidently chewing. “Wild rascals, eh?”
Two more darkly outlined forms burst into loud chuckling. Without the helpfulness of the temple’s torch, it was difficult to see. Miztli felt their wounded companion redoubling his efforts to gain an upright position.
“We aren’t fighting,” Necalli said in a surprisingly clear voice, considering the wildness of his previous vomiting. “We are late for school. Need to run really fast to get there. It’s out there, by the wharves.” His good hand waved in the direction they had come from, non-committal.
“Your telpochcalli teachers will go hard on you, eh?” Another man snickered loudly, openly amused. “Wandering out here at night, oh my. Tomorrow you’ll be slaving with no pause to catch your breath.”
“How do you know?” interrupted another man, drawing closer as well. There was much clamor coming from that other alley, clattering pottery, indignant shouts, drunken laughter. Nothing good or respectable. Even Miztli could guess that. Men of his village would drink pulque on occasion, not in moderate amounts sometimes. Even Father did this, usually after the trips to the luxurious Oaxtepec or the tribute-collecting Taxco, bringing back payment for the fruits, vegetables, and metal.
“I’ve been to school, you stupid provincial,” claimed the first man, growing indignant. “I’m not some uncouth villager like you.”
“Shut up,” suggested the newcomer, unperturbed. “If that’s the best your Tenochtitlan schools can offer…” His hand swept in a casual half circle, indicating their general direction, but as he did so, another of his companions, a tall, sinewy man, stepped closer, leaning as though trying to see them better.
“Is it not…”
“Run when I tell you,” whispered Necalli, breathing normally now, back to his leader-like inclinations. “And keep close together.”
They offered no argument. Yet, still so close to the temple, even the riffraff of the nighttime marketplace knew better than to make trouble. A silhouette of the priestly garment appeared next to the crumbled stones of the entryway they had just left behind.
“Go away, macehualli,” the authoritative voice commanded. “Don’t crowd the mighty god’s vicinity, let alone with spitting and cursing.” A thundering pause. “You too, boys. Go the other way and don’t linger. You’ve done enough mischief for today.”
They waited for no additional invitation. Staggering, but only a little, they bolted for the merciful darkness of the pathway between two long wooden constructions, not caring if this new route took them any closer to their desirable destination, not at this point. Panting and gasping, they slowed their steps only when no noise but that of the distant lakeshore reached their ears, reinforced by the chirping of the night insects. The silvery light shone uninterrupted, illuminating the broader alley adorned by stone and adobe houses on both sides, each hiding behind the darkness of their patios.
“Think we are… are safe now…” rasped Necalli, leaning against a wide tree heavily, fighting for breath. “That was a bad thing, this alley. Not a place… to run around… at night.” Shutting his eyes, he paused, drawing in the crisp air loudly. “Glad that priest had mercy on us. He didn’t look that merciful back there in the temple.”
“They were pissed at us for coming in out of the night with our wild tales, waving hurt limbs to prove our claims.” Catching his breath along with a fair amount of cheerfulness, Axolin cackled between his gasps. “Think about it. They had to drop everything and get busy with all this chanting and special prayers, not to mention the thorns spent on our earlobes and the healing tools. You made them work, those lazy priests. Both of you.” This time, a wink was directed at Miztli, colored by no memories of their previous conflicts. But this one forgot grudges fast!
“Well, that’s their work,” grunted Necalli, clearly refusing to see the funny side of the affair. “But to burn my arm with those coals? Oh man!” His face twisted fiercely, not a pretty sight. “I bet they could have used ointments and such but preferred to hurt in order to teach a lesson. I know how their minds work, priest-teachers or not.”
Could it be? wondered Miztli, taken aback. But this would be such an unnecessary cruelty.
“They didn’t treat my head with coals,” he said, receiving a dark glance as an answer.
“Maybe they didn’t think you needed a lesson,” ventured Axolin, now definitely himself again, his wide lips twisting, eyes twinkling. “Maybe they still believe something can be made out of hopeless cases like him, but not out of wild commoners with no clothes and no better sense than to mingle with crazy pillis from the Royal Enclosure.” The grin stretched wider, challenging their glares. “Or maybe they were afraid to set your pretty hair on fire. Your cuts and scratches were barely visible under this matted mess you have on your head.”
“Shut up.” This came from Necalli, still busy regaining his breath or dominating the pain and exhaustion, or both, his frown deep and troubled, yet his lips quivering, fighting a smile. Miztli tried to suppress a giggle of his own. But it was too funny, this whole thing; there could be no argument about that. In another heartbeat, they were doubling with laughter, trying to be quiet about it, failing miserably. The silent neighborhood wouldn’t deal well with such fits of hysterical mirth; still, they couldn’t help it. It was truly too wild and too funny, this entire evening and night.
“You should have seen yourself, twisting on that floor like a stepped-on snake,” gasped Axolin, practically lying against the rough trunk, fighting to say his piece. “And you, workshop boy, gurgling there in the lake, popping up and down like a hairless puppy that fell over a fisherman’s canoe.”
“Shut… up,” cried both Miztli and Necalli in unison, fighting for breath, staggering as though drunk on pulque, groping for support.
“Yes, yes, and your running here,” went on their entertainer, encouraged by the reaction, pleased with himself, “like commoners drunk on pulque, like a canoe in storm waters.”
More heartbeats passed among hysterical laughter. The dark patios paid them no attention, but for how long? Miztli fought the urge to slip along the rough unevenness of their support.
“Should have seen yourself,” managed Necalli in the end. “Perching on that stair in the temple, like a spooked bird. Both of you. A pair of spooked birds.”
That sent them back into uncontrollable fits again. In the end, they just panted, drained of strength but heartened, in the best of spirits, as though cleansed by the unseemly laughter.
“We’d better hurry back, all of us,” said Necalli, adjusting his bandaged arm in the cradle of the good one. “To face infuriated superiors and all that.” He shrugged, not looking worried. “Will that metal-crafting owner of yours get mad seeing you coming back in the middle of the night?”
Miztli felt himself sliding from the cloud of euphoria. “He is not my owner. I work for him, to learn the trade.” He shrugged. “He may get mad, if he noticed. In the worst of cases, he’ll throw me out and I’ll go back home. The best solution
as far as I’m concerned.”
Both calmecac boys rolled their eyes. “The best solution? Won’t your old man kill you for such a failure? His father and mine, and everyone else’s, for that matter, would burst worse than the Smoking Mountain of the eastern mainland if we were thrown out of school. You would have to assemble us part by part after they were through with us. Not the ‘best solution’ at all.”
He tried not to snicker at such an unattractively painted prospect. “My father won’t be that mad. I think…” Or maybe he would. It cost plenty to send him here, plenty of negotiation and promised goods to make old Tlaquitoc accept a foreigner for an apprentice, plenty of promised good behavior. Would Father be disappointed? Oh, let it not happen that way!
“Well, don’t make that old craftsman madder than he is with you now, workshop boy.” Straightening up resolutely, Necalli drew a deep breath. “Not until we are through with that tunnel, eh? Stay around Tenochtitlan until we know more. It might get interesting, you know.” A wink. “Tomorrow, we’ll go there again. No, on the day after that, or the one after that. Tomorrow, we are sure to get stuck in the school, doing extra chores.” He frowned. “If you can get away from your workshop, go there and sniff around, see what you can make out of this place. Don’t go inside. Just sneak in the proximity of that old temple, see if there is something there, something interesting.”
“If I can get away before it gets dark.”
“If you find something, let us know.”