The Goldsmith's Daughter (8 page)

Not until we were safely back in his workshop did my father speak of what had happened, and then his words were muted. “Well, Itacate. It seems you may bring wealth to your family. And attention.”

He said no more, and I did not reply. Instead I went to help Mayatl prepare the meal, dull labour soothing my fevered thoughts.

As I peeled avocado and set slices in an earthen-ware bowl, I considered the whereabouts of our home. It stood alone, several streets away from the marketplace, between the mud-brick huts of the peasant farmers and the larger stone-built dwellings of the potters' guild. My father had always lived quietly – avoiding contact with others, producing wares that were competently crafted but unremarkable. I had believed he did so because he cared little for his life. But now I detected the reasoning that lay behind his choice. As a goldsmith, he was exempt from paying taxes and thus, until that moment, we had been beneath the notice of the authorities. But now my figurine had brought my father – and his defiance of the conventions of our city – to the attention of one of the elite.

I trembled at the thought of what my father's curiosity and my stubbornness might cost us.

B
etween that market day and the next came the spring festival which honoured the god Tezcatlipoca: four days of ritual that made the heart ache with sadness even as it sang with joy, for it celebrated the frailty of love, the fleetingness of beauty, the fragility of fame and grandeur. The ill omens of the past months gave the festival a desperate, ardent intensity, for it was through the favour of Tezcatlipoca that our empire had been created; by his grace that Montezuma sat aloft as lord of the world. But all knew that the god who had made Tenochtitlán great could as easily destroy it.

As was the custom a handsome youth – unblemished and perfect – had been chosen to represent the deity, and for the whole of the past sacred year he had lived removed from the world as though divine. At the start of the festival he would be given four handmaidens – great beauties of the elite – who would share his life and warm his bed on his last days on earth. Carried about the city in a litter, he would have flowers strewn in his path and his glory would match that of the emperor himself. All would bow reverentially before him, and some would kiss the ground and implore him to intercede with the gods on their behalf.

And on the fourth day, at the very peak of the celebrations, this splendid youth would mount the steps of the principal temple. Breaking the flute that tied him to this world, he would then gladly submit himself for sacrifice. Thus, we hoped, would Tezcatlipoca's favour be bought for one more year. Thus, we hoped, would Tenochtitlán's great fame and bountiful good fortune continue.

Before then there were three days of feasting and dancing.

For many months now it had seemed as though Mitotiqui and I stood on either side of a broad canal and someone had smashed the bridge between us. He no longer told me about his days at school, and I could tell him nothing of my growing mastery of the goldsmith's art. When he was released from the calmecac, he did not hurry home to seek my company as he used to, but disappeared with other young men, doing I knew not what.

But the first day of the festival was different. It was a holy time and the priests who taught him were engaged with other duties so he had no school. And I, our father complaining of a headache, was released from my work. Mayatl was occupied with the many tasks of the household. So Mitotiqui and I went together to the temple precinct to watch the celebrations.

Our mood was muted at first; we hardly knew how to speak to one another. We walked the wide avenues, and the distance between us was tangible and painfully awkward. But as we continued the crowds became thicker, until they were so great that we were pressed shoulder to shoulder. This enforced contact began to dissolve our reticence.

Like all gods, Tezcatlipoca has two faces: one is perfect and beautiful; the other is Titlacuan the destroyer, a wizened old man full of malice. This duality was represented throughout the festival. As Mitotiqui and I approached the square, a shrunken, aged man, whose curled toenails clacked on the stones like claws, leapt in our path and waved his stick in our faces. By his feet I knew him to be the man from the marketplace – he who had cast down my figurine in scorn. His eyes blazed as the god possessed him. Stepping forward to shield me, Mitotiqui took the blows Titlacuan rained down. They thudded hard upon his chest, while he who played the god shrieked aloud, “Do not protect her! She brings disaster.”

It was his usual cry. He moved on, poking his stick rudely beneath the skirts of women, and shouting insults to their husbands. But it chilled me; his words seemed meant for my ears alone. Seeing my reaction, Mitotiqui placed an arm about my shoulders and pulled me to him.

“Come, sister,” he said. “The bird dance begins.”

As children, we had always thought this the most exciting aspect of the festival.

A high pole had been erected in the precinct and four men, dressed in the costumes of birds with intricate weavings of gold and green feathers transforming their arms into wings, climbed it. When they reached the platform at the top they tied ropes around their waists. A fifth man was perched perilously at the centre, a drum gripped between his knees which he began to beat.

Once secured, with no hesitation the first of the four dived off, head first, hurtling towards the ground. I knew he was safely secured, knew he would not dash himself to pieces; yet I, along with the rest of the onlookers, could not help but gasp as he launched himself into the air. He scarce brushed the stone before springing back up. Around the pole he bobbed and spun, wheeling in a great arc high above our heads thirteen times – a sacred number, for it is as many as the cycle of years, and the layers of the heavens.

The second and third bird dancers followed the first almost at once. But the fourth was slow to dive, as though afraid. And when the jeers of the crowd forced him off, he found he had misjudged the length of his rope and his head hit stone. We did not hear the crack of bone, for the watching people roared, some with sympathy, some with derision. His flight was erratic, inelegant, of no tribute to the gods. When it ended he was led, almost insensible, away.

“I fear for him,” murmured my brother in my ear.

“I too.”

We both knew that an error in any dance could prove fatal to the perpetrator.

Next came the nobles of the city, hundreds of men wearing gorgeous robes of rippling feathers, gleaming with gold ornaments. Drums sounded, and the music of pipes and flutes rang throughout the square. The noblemen began the serpent dance, rising in waves in tribute to Tezcatlipoca. The assembled crowd clapped and whooped, giving their encouragement and support to those who wound, with wild ecstasy, in spiralling circles around the drummers. Attendants with pine cudgels stood ready to press back any man who weakened and tried to leave the dance. The steps must be performed correctly until the very end; any deviation from the pattern was an offence. This dance was done not for idle pleasure or amusement; this was an act of worship that demanded the total dedication of the participant's body, mind and soul.

When it was over Mitotiqui grasped my hand. I turned to him, and suddenly we were children again – giggling infants who had escaped the clutches of our nurse. We abandoned the festivities and fled, winding between streets and alleyways, heading for the chinampa fields.

So absorbed were we in our reckless flight that we almost ran headlong into the procession. Only when the priests nearly stepped upon us did we realize our danger. We swiftly stood aside, flattening ourselves against a wall, heads bowed low in respect, wiping all traces of amusement from our faces.

It was the god. The perfect youth was carried upon a litter, garlanded and magnificently clothed. I knelt as he passed, as was the custom; but as I did so, some impulse spurred me to glance at him.

For a moment, I was blinded by beauty – stunned by the radiance of his face. Glory scalded the backs of my eyes. This was no mortal boy. He was transformed, possessed by the god, lit from within by his power. The youth he had been was burnt away, and what remained of his body was a gilded shell: unreal, insubstantial, a dream. And soon the door would open to a more lasting truth – the eternal reality. I closed my eyes to shut out the brightness of his divinity, pressing my palms hard against the lids.

The procession of priests and handmaidens to the god moved on, and Mitotiqui and I were left alone once more. I could breathe again, and did so, inhaling in fevered gulps. Our rash act had brought us close to incurring the wrath of the priests and it would be death to do so.

My brother did not notice my distress.

“Look,” he said, his voice quivering with excitement as he held out his open palm for inspection. “See what the god has left us.”

It was not the food of commoners; not a thing that could be freely purchased in the market square. But I had often seen girls carrying baskets towards the temples; I knew at once what they were.

Mushrooms. Five of them. The sacred diet of priests and gods. They had rolled from the litter of the perfect youth and been found by my own perfect brother. He pressed two into my hand.

“These are for you. I will have three,” he decided.

“Because you are a man?” I asked, my temper rising in irritation.

“No, dear sister, because I am bigger. I need more food. You know my appetite has always been greater than yours.” So saying he crammed the mushrooms into his mouth and chewed.

How could I do anything but copy him? He was my beloved brother, and for too long I had ached with his absence. Where he led, I would follow.

I started to eat.

For some time we simply stood and stared at each other, feeling a little stupid. I had expected the effect to be instantaneous, and it was not.

But then – like a rising mist – the mushrooms began their work.

I cannot describe all that happened next, because I do not recall it. I know that I had a sensation of floating above the streets and over the roofs. I yearned to soar high into the sky, to see at last what lay beyond the mountains. And yet I was prevented by a great weight that tethered me to the ground. Looking down, I recognized this as my own body, which was slumped beside Mitotiqui in the street. From above I watched as he pulled me to my feet and, with an arm about my waist, walked with me back towards the temple precinct. His steps were uneven, his gait strange and stumbling, as though he too would soon collapse. Drugged as I was, I felt it unwise to be amongst crowds where our condition would be observed. I wanted to tell him to go in a different direction, but in my spirit-like state I had lost the power of speech.

A hazy blur of dancers whirled about the square, and the drums grew louder and louder. I saw Mitotiqui fall, insensible, at the steps of the temple, my empty body lying discarded beside him. I was caught up, spinning out of control, insubstantial as a breeze, blowing hither and thither amongst the whirling dancers until suddenly everything ceased.

The last thing I saw clearly was the face of a man – a strange youth I had never met – whose golden hair grew in waving lines like the plumed serpents of the god Quetzalcoatl. After that, everything was darkness and silence.

It was many hours later that I revived. The crowds had thinned as the festivities were over for that day. The sun was almost set.

It was our father who found us. Our father who, becoming anxious at our absence, had set forth to search the city for his children. His was the face before me when I opened my eyes.

But it was not his voice that said coldly, “You ate of the mushroom.”

It was not a question.

A priest. Painted black for the festival. Matted hair thick with blood. Ears torn with lacerations. Eyes blazing as he asked, “What did you see?”

My mouth seemed full of ash. Words were difficult. I whispered, “A man – a youth. That was all.”

“Your future husband, perhaps,” said my father lightly. “Is that not all girls ever dream of?” His tone was mocking, as if to convey that my actions had been merely foolish, not blasphemous.

I did not correct him. I did not dare to say that the youth I had seen was like no one who walked in this world. Hearing the fear in my father's voice, I held my tongue.

“Come, my daughter.” He helped me to my feet. “Let us go home. I had need of you today.”

But the priest had not finished with us. He looked at Mitotiqui, who, like me, had only just awoken from his vision, and who now stared with jealousy at the protective hand our father had placed on my shoulder. Our father had made no move to help him. Terror kept him still. I felt his fingers tremble as they gripped me, but Mitotiqui could not see this.

“You, boy,” asked the priest. “You ate too?”

“Youthful folly,” my father said swiftly. “An accident, no more.”

“Nothing happens by accident,” the priest snapped in reply. He turned to my brother. “What did the gods show you?”