by Zoe Saadia
“And you…” began the royal boy hotly, but the raising clamor beyond the incline, many throats shouting at once, cut their argument short. Whatever was happening in this filthy town, it moved closer to the lakeshores, and they didn’t need any of that. Their presence here wasn’t welcome. Of that they had been informed in too many ways by now.
“There, down the shore!”
They didn’t wait for another invitation; still, he made sure they all broke into a run before doing the same, his dizziness still there but less tormenting now, just a slightly woozy sensation, a bit of a flickering fog in the corner of his eyes. He paid it little attention, bending to snatch a temptingly unattended dagger, glittering in the grass, not far away from its fallen owner, a prettily carved affair of decorated handle attached to the ragged obsidian, a treasure.
Down by the reeds, their assailants were still sprawled, one motionless, the other stirring, groaning in a low croaking voice. Pausing to catch his breath, Necalli clutched his newly acquired dagger, his heart pounding. Another, simpler looking knife glinted next to the motionless man. Shuddering, he pushed the memory of this particular blade away, the way it neared his eye, so slowly and deliberately, enjoying his terror, the softly spoken words flowing ahead of it, describing the happenings. His nausea returned twice as strong as before. Pressing his lips against its intensity, he watched the workshop boy nearing warily, bending to pick up something round and bright. Chantli and her royal company were already charging into the reeds, oblivious of their angry rustling.
“What is it?” he asked, wishing to break into wild run as well, as fast as he could, fighting the urge. But was he a mouse to scurry away like that?
“A missile. From their slings.” The coarse, scratched palm shot forward, offering a view of a ball, perfectly round and slick save a few cracks running alongside its surface. “A neat thing.”
“It is.” Necalli tried to make his mind work. “You shot that man with this thing, didn’t you?”
His companion nodded, non-committal.
To take a deep breath became a necessity. “You saved my life.”
The generous lips twisted in obvious embarrassment. “It’s nothing. I didn’t do anything. You came here to help me out. We were in it together.”
He could see Chantli waving at them, jumping up and down with impatience. Of Ahuitzotl there was no sight. The unruly pilli. But they had better keep an eye on that one. “Let us go. Nothing to linger here for.” He looked at his companion once again, taking in the wide, well-defined features, haggard but strong and unyielding. “You are a warrior, copper-melting boy. Too good to be spent in your stinking workshop.”
Disregarding the indignant spark of the dark eyes, he motioned with his head, turning to lead. But for finding a way to avoid entering the shallow water and the gleefully murmuring reeds, in case some of the Spiny Ones were prowling around here like back near the other side of the causeway. This time, the monsters would have even an easier time. There would be not much of an effort on the slick creatures’ part. He pressed his bad arm with the good one, trying to disregard the exploding headache and the fire that kept burning the left side of his face, where the vile man’s knife managed to slide against it. Oh mighty deities, let them come out of this terrible adventure alive. Of the punishment that was waiting for them back at school, he preferred not to think. There were more pressing matters to attend to.
“Look at this thing!”
Again, young Ahuitzotl was the one to forge far ahead, coming up with new findings. But this boy was a force of nature!
Necalli made a face at him, glad to take his thoughts off more worrisome topics. “Don’t scream.”
The sounds of the shore and the town behind it were still strong enough here, louder than one would feel comfortable with. Plenty of feathers and sometimes the mangled corpse of a bird floated in the muddied shoals, suggesting the possible intrusion of sniffing-around commoners, anyone who cared to add a good chunk of meat to their maize meals, all those gruels and stews. The workshop boy, he noticed, was glancing toward the shore every time the uproar grew in volume, his gaze yearning somehow, as though sorry for not being able to join the festivities.
Puzzled, Necalli concentrated on the agitated pilli. “What?”
“There is a strange thing floating out there, behind those reeds. Not a boat.”
“What is it?”
“I don’t know. But it isn’t guarded. Not like that stinking canoe back there.”
He tried not to snicker. “For a royal offspring, you know way too much about creeping around and stealing things.”
The boy made a face at him, curiously not offended, not this time. “I know many things.”
“That you do.” Uneasily, he eyed the thick cluster of reeds. Those weren’t as dense or as deserted as the ones beneath the causeway; still, possible predators in it made him wish to bolt away and up the slanting shore. “Where is this thing?”
“Out there.” Again, a noncommittal wave indicated the general direction of the marshes he didn’t wish to enter. He rolled his eyes, glancing at Chantli, who trod close by, keeping very little distance, trusting him to keep her safe, a most pleasant realization.
The warm wave was spreading again, making it difficult to fight a smile. She was so pretty and wild. Unruly, yes, but trustworthy, someone to rely upon, a true survivor. Not like girls from old stories, like in the legend of the two smoking mountains from the eastern highlands, the beauty who waited for her warrior to return, dying upon hearing the false message of his death, both of them turning into two massive peaks, lying side by side. A boring business. Well, on Chantli one could count not to die just like that, waiting and waiting. This one would go out and look for him, proving the false message wrong, helping along if he needed help. Not what one would expect from a good, well-mannered girl. Not to mention her looks.
He glanced at her again; it helped to battle the exhaustion and pain. All those scratches and bruises, and with her hair sticking out in a wild way; how was it that she pleased the eye so, looking more enticing than ever? He tried not to let his gaze wander, her skirt torn badly, hanging in shreds. The most tempting of sights. Embarrassed, he looked away.
“What?” She was peering at him, frowning comically. “Why are you –”
“Here!” Ahuitzotl’s cry came in time, before his face started to blaze with the fire that had nothing to do with its injuries and wounds.
Minding his step, the slippery mud making it difficult to keep one’s balance, he hurried after the muddied cloak, its decorations missing or mangled badly. But what would they do to them for drawing a royal pilli into this trouble? Nothing good!
The construction of a few planks tied together in an oblique way looked strange, lolling among the reeds, brushing against the stacks, bending them.
“We can’t sail in this!”
The boy’s lips pursed in a familiar manner. “It’s better than nothing.”
“Yes, we can put Patli on it, and Axolin too,” contributed Chantli, bursting with lovely vitality again, her reflective mood forgotten.
“And do what with them?”
“Drag along the shore until we reach the causeway.” This came from the workshop boy, still at some distance, as though unwilling to leave the safety of the shoreline, or maybe its temptations, glancing back toward the roaring city again. What had he been doing here in Tlatelolco for a whole day and two nights? wondered Necalli, suddenly perturbed. The strange boy had better make sense with his story when questioned. How, for all mighty deities’ sake, did Chantli manage to unearth him here, being in the right place and the right time, in a fairly battered state, yes, but waving a warrior’s sling, volunteering nothing, no excuse, no explanation?
He pushed the questions and the dilemmas away, aware of his bottomless exhaustion and his head, which was trying to explode from within, his throat hurting, arm on fire. But he wouldn’t mind stretching on this same improvised raft himself, letting them drag him al
ong the shore and toward the causeway. Not such a bad idea, come to think of it. That commoner was too good for his stinking workshop.
“We’ll take this thing,” he said tiredly, craving to find something to lean against. “Drag it toward the boys, then decide what to do.” Even a shrug came with difficulty, a somewhat painful business with that stupid arm. “Just make sure to draw no attention from that wild gathering up there.”
Chapter 19
Chantli shifted her shoulders, then stretched, staring at the colorful variety of strings spreading before her eyes, hating every single one of them. It was a difficult design, too many threads of too many colors, each pattern demanding the entirety of her concentration, challenging. Usually, she didn’t mind weaving, the work on her loom not as boring as parting or spinning maguey threads, yet today, she hated every moment of it.
Oh, but how frightfully enraged Father was, how he fumed. He, who had always a good encouraging word for her, finding excuses, curbing Mother’s punishments sometimes, when she, Chantli, had been caught in various small transgressions. Mother was the one who tried to be stern, with her and her youngest brother. The oldest were too old, and not her sons anyway, their mother being Father’s Chief Wife, now dead for almost ten summers. Which made Chantli’s mother into a chief spouse, and the only one too, a nice thing. It wasn’t as though Father couldn’t afford another wife in his household. It was more that he didn’t want one. Too many women, too many troubles, he would say, grinning, making Mother giggle. Well, since last night, no one was grinning in this household, not even the slave girl.
Forgetting her loom and the threads stretched alongside it and across, she pressed her palms tight, shivering, wishing to groan aloud. But how loudly Father had yelled, how frightfully, so harsh and uncaring; how terrible his threats were. She had never suspected that a calm, deliberate, exceptionally understanding man could turn into someone so frighteningly unreasonable. Even Mother had quailed and did not contribute a word, even Acatlo. Oh yes, both her elder brothers, so outspoken and quick to criticize or complain, to talk to Father freely and with respect but no fear, beat a hasty retreat, taking themselves off and away, along with her scampering-off younger sibling and the slave. Even Mother retreated into another room, to tend to Patli and the local healer woman who came to check on his bleeding head, and with Miztli locked in the workshop to await his own judgment, it left Chantli all alone to face that atrocious rage and ear-splitting harangue about disobedient children and the punishments reserved in the law for such ungratefulness and lack of manners. Oh, but how frightening it all was!
Even now, after a night spent in this backroom, charged with a ridiculously large amount of weaving she couldn’t possibly complete in a moon, forbidden to communicate with anyone, not even Mother, ordered to think of her crimes and think well, she still wasn’t sure that the worst was over. Father never hit her. Even his sons he had rarely punished by physical means; however, by law, he could do this. She was of an age to receive physical punishment, parents allowed to whip disobedient children with a stick after the age of twelve, and she was already fourteen. Oh mighty deities! To inhale hurtful smoke coming out of a pot boiling with chili peppers was a bad thing, but the possibility of whipping scared her for real.
Forcing her concentration back to the loom and the material it was supposed to produce – but she had better make as much of it as she could, show her regret in this way – she thought about the others. Were they facing as terrible ordeals? About Miztli she didn’t even dare to think. But what Father would do to him? What could he? That boy was standing not much higher than a cheaply bought slave in their household, but slaves did have rights too, and judges to appeal to. One couldn’t just punish a slave without stating one’s case before the local district’s court, explaining the gravity of the transgression, but Miztli wasn’t even a slave. He had no status, come to think of it, and Father was clearly beyond any reasonable type of behavior.
Shutting her eyes, she whispered a prayer, asking Coatlicue, Mother of Gods, to keep them all safe, the village boy included. He didn’t deserve punishments, not with his bravery and loyalty and dependable ways. Even Necalli told him that he was worthy of all the rest of the calmecac boys put together. He had said so in these very words while climbing the sloping planks of the wharves on other side of the causeway, pushing their improvised raft back into the lake, breathing with relief, all of them. Almost home!
Easing her aching back, the loom’s strap wrapped around it, pressing with comfortably familiar ease but the rest of her pose awkward, the little backroom not equipped for a long term weaving, having no available beam to tie the loom’s other end to, she remembered Necalli, battered and exhausted, barely able to stand straight but beaming, glowing with a triumphant grin, proud of their achievements, besting the odds in such a way.
“This Tlatelolcan scum is nothing,” he had declared, standing on the edge of their side of the causeway, the right side, balancing there with the ease of a mighty conqueror. “All their plotting and scheming and their stupid birds shooting and kidnapping people, but here we are, alive and away. The easiest thing.” His beam was one of the widest, making her chest tighten. So handsome!
“Oh yes, the easiest. No sweat at all.” Miztli’s badly bruised face reflected the wideness of the calmecac boy’s grin, as beaming and uninhibited. But she had never seen the village boy smiling with such openness, such lack of reserve. Well, those two days were a revelation.
And then Axolin was snickering, and Ahuitzotl – another radiant, atypically light, bouncy being, not hurrying to take offense or argue or prove his worth. And then they were all roaring with laughter, doubling over, unable to get enough air. Even Patli, swaying while leaning heavily against the nearest plank, his face pasty, hair caked with a mixture of mud and blood, contributed to the wild guffawing. It was truly too funny, this entire thing, and the way they all looked, so badly bashed and trounced. It was impossible to take it all seriously, not anymore.
“Now let us go back and get all the punishments over with,” declared Necalli, catching his breath in the end. “After surviving those, we can get together again, eh?” His gaze lingered on her, gauging in a way, making her insides jelly. “To discuss it all.” His eyes left her reluctantly, moving to Ahuitzotl. “There are some nasty things going on in this Tlatelolco, something your brother may wish to hear about. If they don’t kill you up there in the Palace for what we’ve done, try to let them know. It may be important, all those things, especially that filthy Teconal’s eagerness to keep you in his custody.”
“I know that!” cried out the royal boy, nodding too vigorously, making his matted hair jump. “I was going to.”
“Good!” Necalli didn’t make any faces, not this time. “Axolin, lean on me.” A curt motion of his head was accompanied with a needling grin. “Let’s take your limping carcass back to school, for their sticks and maguey thorns to get to work, eh? I bet they are waiting for us with all of it and more.”
“Beyond doubt,” was the other calmecac boy’s nonchalant response.
“Will you two manage with your cargo?”
She remembered nodding readily, and so did Miztli, already propping up her cousin, offering the broadness of his shoulder to lean against. A conscious Patli was easier to deal with than the unconscious one. It was such a relief to find him alive and responsive back then on that abandoned shore earlier. Running around the more inhabited parts of the island, dealing with their mounting troubles, she had forgotten all about her wounded cousin and it still made her ashamed, this particular feeling.
“Come near our school the moment you can,” were Necalli’s parting words. “Try to send us word somehow.”
She felt the tears beginning again, insistent, making the threads upon her loom blur. It sounded so easy back then, funny, hilarious. Get over with punishments, then to the new adventures. But now… Oh, now she was a prisoner for an indefinite period of time, unable to go out freely, if ever, not allowed t
o leave this small storage room, not allowed to converse with her own family. With Miztli probably faring even worse. And Necalli and Axolin? What were the school’s punishments for pupils being absent for more than an entire day and with no permission and not a word as to their whereabouts? What were the authorities allowed do with them? She remembered his mangled arm, and the rest of his cuts and bruises. Did they go easier on him back in school or at his own family house because of his injuries? She hoped they did. He did not deserve punishments. He was so strong, so responsible and reliable, taking care of them all, making sure she was well, even after their frequent arguments. Why had she argued with him so much?
Fitting a new thread between the stretched fibers, she blinked her tears away, wondering about Ahuitzotl. Well, the royal pilli would probably get away lightly, but the rest of them, oh mighty Coatlicue, but they were done for, their lives ruined, forever, maybe. At fifteen, girls were liable to be offered in marriage and what if Father locked her up until that happened?
The tears were back, flowing unrestrained. Through the small opening in the wall, the light surged softly, caressing, offering comfort. The house was so terribly quiet, no voices, no sounds of running feet, all the regular clamor of midday. Father must be in the workshop now – poor Miztli! – and her brothers too, but Mother and the rest, weren’t they going about their business? The maid must be back from the marketplace long since, grinding maize, cooking or cleaning, and her little brother would be all around the house, getting in everyone’s way. She swallowed a new bout of tears.
From the outside, somewhere beyond the patio or the adjacent alley, the thundering of quite a few sandaled footsteps were nearing, loudly determined, accompanied by voices of several people talking at once. Not a regular occurrence between the quiet dwellings of their neighborhood. What now?
Tensing despite herself, she listened, her senses telling her that the newcomers were progressing too purposefully, too sure of themselves and their destination, their thick-soled sandals resounding against the cracked cobblestones, firm and unwavering. Warriors? But why here? On the marketplace, upon hearing such sounds, one was wise to move away, as the warriors would usually escort a litter carrying nobility or accompany an official, a judge or a tribute collector on duty, expecting the crowds to clear off on their own. However, no nobility or officials frequented regular neighborhoods, having nothing to seek there, no goods to purchase and no tribute to collect – the head of the district, a noble person in himself, and his council of elected officials was taking care of any such business on behalf of the citizens entrusted to their care.