Angry at Everybody came to stand beside me, and asked, “What do you think?”
“Well, it does not spout from one of the typical Teohuacán springs,” I said. “The water is not bitter or malodorous or hot. It will be good for drinking and for irrigation. The land looks to be good earth, and I see no other habitations or plantations. I think this is the place for our Yanquítlan. Tell them so.”
Qualánqui turned and bellowed for everyone to hear, “Set down your packs! We have arrived!”
I said, “Let them rest for the remainder of today. Tomorrow we will begin—”
“Tomorrow,” interrupted one of the priests, suddenly at my elbow, “and the day after that, and the day after that, we will devote to the consecration of this ground. With your permission, of course.”
I said, “This is the first community I ever founded, young Lord Priest, and I am unacquainted with the formalities. By all means, do everything that is required by the gods.”
Yes, I said those very words, not realizing how the words could be taken as my bestowal of unlimited religious license; not foreseeing the manner in which the words might eventually be interpreted by the priests and people; not remotely suspecting that I would, all my life long, regret that casual utterance.
The initial ritual, the consecration of the local terrain, took three entire days of prayer and invocation and incense burning and the like. Some of the rites occupied only the priests, but others required the participation of all of us. I did not mind, for the soldiers and settlers alike were enlivened by the days of rest and diversion. Even Nochípa and Béu were obviously glad that the ceremonies gave them reason to dress in clothes more rich and feminine and ornamental than the traveling garb they had worn for so long.
And that gave some of the colonists another diversion—me too, since it amused me to watch it. Most of the men of the train had wives and families, but there were three or four widowers with children but no wives, and those took the opportunity of the consecration days to pay court to Béu, one after another. There were also, among the males of the train, boys and young men of an age to make awkward approaches to Nochípa. I could not blame them, young men or older ones, for Nochípa and Béu were infinitely more beautiful and refined and desirable than the squatly built, coarse-featured, paddle-footed farm women and girls of the company.
Béu Ribé, when she thought I was not watching, would haughtily repulse the men who came asking that she be their partner in one of the ceremonial dances, or inventing any other excuse to be near her. But sometimes, when she knew I was nearby, she would let the oaf stand there while she flirted and teased outrageously, her smile and eyes so warm that they made the wretch begin to sweat. She was clearly trying just to taunt me by making me realize anew that she was still an attractive woman. I did not have to be reminded; Waiting Moon was indeed as lovely of face and body as Zyanya had been; but I, unlike the farmers fawning on her, had long been inured to her spiteful wiles of first temptation then rejection. I merely beamed and nodded, like a benevolently approving brother, and her eyes would go from warm to cold, her voice from sweet to corrosive, and the suddenly spurned suitor would retreat in confusion.
Nochípa played no such games; she was as chaste as all her dances had been. To every young man who approached, she turned a look of such wonderment, almost astonishment, that he very soon—after mumbling only a few shy words—quailed before her gaze and slunk away, red-faced, kicking the ground. Hers was an innocence that proclaimed itself inviolable, an innocence that apparently made every supplicant feel as embarrassed and ashamed as if he had lewdly exposed himself. I stood apart, feeling two kinds of pride in my daughter: pride in seeing that she was lovely enough to attract many men; pride in knowing that she would wait for the one man she wanted. Many times since then, I have wished that the gods had struck me down in that instant, in punishment for my complacent pride. But the gods know crueler punishments.
On the third night, when the exhausted priests announced that all the consecration was accomplished, that we could begin the mundane work of locating a new community on ground presumably made hospitable and safe, I said to Angry at Everybody:
“Tomorrow we will have the farm women start cutting branches for huts, and grass for thatching them, while their men start clearing the riverside for planting. It was Motecuzóma’s command that they get seed in the earth as soon as possible, and the people will need only the flimsiest of houses while they work at that. Later, but before the rains start, we will lay out streets and plots for their permanent dwellings. But in the meantime the soldiers have nothing to occupy them. Also, by now, the news of our coming must have reached the capital. I think we should hasten to visit the Uey-Tlatoáni, or whatever the Teohuacána call their ruling lord, and make our intentions known. We will take the soldiers along. They are numerous enough to prevent our being summarily seized or repelled, yet not such a large force as to imply that we come in belligerence.”
Qualánqui nodded and said, “I will inform the farm families that their holiday ends tomorrow, and I will have the Tecpanéca ready to march.”
As he went off, I turned to Béu Ribé and said, “Your sister my wife once lent her charm to help me sway another foreign ruler, a man far more formidable than any in these lands. If I arrive at the court of Teohuacán similarly accompanied by a beautiful woman, it might make this mission, too, appear more friendly than audacious. Could I ask you, Waiting Moon …?”
“To go with you, Záa?” she said eagerly. “As your consort?”
“To all appearances. We need not reveal that you are merely my lady sister. Considering our age, it should excite no comment when we request separate accommodations.”
She surprised me by flaring angrily, “Our age!” But she calmed just as quickly, and murmured, “Of course. Reveal nothing. Your mere sister is yours to command.”
I said, “Thank you.”
“However, lord brother, your earlier command was that I stay at Nochípa’s side to protect her from this rude company. If I go with you, what of Nochípa?”
“Yes, what of me?” asked my daughter, plucking at my mantle on the other side. “Do I go too, Father?”
“No, you stay here, child,” I said. “I do not really expect to meet trouble on the road or in the capital, but there is always that risk. Here you will be safe among the numbers. And safe in the presence of the priests, whom any hostiles would hesitate to attack, out of religious awe. These farmer louts will be toiling so hard that they will have no time to molest you, and they will be too tired at night for the eligible males even to attempt flirting with you. In any case, Daughter, I have observed that you can discourage them capably enough. You will be safer here, Nochípa, than on the open road, and we will not be gone for long.”
But she looked so downcast that I added, “When I return, we will have ample leisure time and the freedom of all this country. I promise you that we will see more of it. Just you and me, Nochípa, traveling light and far.”
She brightened and said, “Yes, that will be even better. Just you and me. I will stay here willingly, Father. And at night, when the people are tired from their labors, perhaps I can make them forget their weariness. I can dance for them.”
Even without the dragging train of colonists, it took another five days for me and Béu and our escort of forty and four to reach the town of Teohuacán, or Tya Nya. I remember that much, and I remember that we were most graciously received by the lord ruler, though I no longer remember his name or his lady’s, or how many days we stayed as their guests in the rather ramshackle edifice they called a palace. I do remember his saying:
“That land you have occupied, Eagle Knight Mixtli, is one of our most pleasant and fertile stretches of terrain.” To which he hastily added, “But we have not people to spare from other farms and other occupations to go and work it. Your colonists are welcome to it, and we welcome their presence. Any nation profits from new blood in its body.”
He said much more, of the
same import, and he gave me gifts in exchange for those I had brought him from Motecuzóma. And I remember that we were often and bountifully feasted—my men as well as Béu and myself—and we forced ourselves to drink that nasty mineral water of which the Teohuacána are so proud; we even smacked our lips in a pretense of savoring it. And I remember that there were no noticeably raised eyebrows when I asked for separate rooms for Béu and myself, though I have a vague recollection of her coming into my room during one of the nights there. She said something, she begged something—and I replied harshly—and she pleaded. I think I slapped her face … but now I cannot recall….
No, my lord scribes, do not look at me so. It is not that my memory has begun now suddenly to fail. All those things have been unclear to me during all the years since they happened. It is because something else happened soon afterward, and that thing so seared itself into my brain that it burned out my remembrance of the events preceding. I remember that we parted from our Tya Nya hosts with many mutual expressions of cordiality, and the townspeople lined the streets to cheer us on our way, and only Béu seemed less than happy at the success of our embassy. And I suppose it took us another five days to retrace our route….
It was twilight when we came to the river, at the bank opposite Yanquítlan. There did not seem to have been much building done during our absence. Even using my seeing crystal, I could make out only a few huts erected on the village site. But there was some sort of celebration again in progress, and many fires burned high and bright, though the night was not yet fallen. We did not immediately start to ford the river, but stood listening to the shouts and laughter from the other side of the water, because it was the happiest sound we had ever heard from that uncouth company. Then a man, one of the older farmers, unexpectedly emerged from the river before us. He saw our troop halted there, and came splashing through the shallows, hailing me respectfully:
“Mixpantzínco! In your august presence, Eagle Knight, and welcome back. We feared you might miss all of the ceremony.”
“What ceremony?” I asked. “I know of no ceremony in which the celebrants are bidden to go swimming.”
He laughed and said, “Oh, that was my own notion. I was so warm from the dancing and merrymaking that I had to cool off. But I have already had my share of blessings with the bone.” I could not speak. He must have taken my silence for incomprehension; he explained, “You yourself told the priests to do all things required by the gods. Surely you realize that the month of Tlacaxípe Ualíztli was already well along when you left us, and the god not yet invoked to bless the clearing of the land for planting.”
“No,” I said, or groaned. I did not disbelieve his word; I knew the date. I was only trying to reject the thought that made my heart clench like a fist closing. The man went on, as if he was proud to be the first to tell me:
“Some wanted to await your return, Lord Knight, but the priests had to hurry the preparations and the preliminary activities. You know that we had no delicacies for feasting the chosen one, or instruments for making the proper music. But we have sung loudly and burned much copáli. Also, since there is no temple for the requisite coupling, the priests sanctified a patch of soft grass screened by bushes, and there has been no lack of volunteer mates, many of them several times over. Since all agreed that our commander should be honored, even in his absence, all were unanimous in the choice of the symbolic one. And now you have returned in time to see the god represented in the person of—”
He stopped abruptly there, for I had swung my maquáhuitl through his neck, cleaving it clear to the bone at the back. Béu gave a small scream, and the soldiers behind her goggled and craned. The man stood wavering for a moment, looking bewildered, nodding slightly, soundlessly opening and shutting his mouth and the wider red lips below his chin. Then his head flopped backward, the wound yawned open, blood spouted, and he fell at my feet.
Béu said, aghast, “Záa, why? What made you do that?”
“Be silent, woman!” snapped Angry at Everybody. Then he gripped my upper arm, which perhaps stopped me from falling too, and said, “Mixtli, we may yet be in time to prevent the final proceeding….”
I shook my head. “You heard him. He had been blessed with the bone. All has been done as that god requires.”
Qualánqui sighed and said hoarsely, “I am sorry.”
One of his ancient comrades took my other arm and said, “We are all sorry, young Mixtli. Would you prefer to wait here while we—while we go across the river?”
I said, “No. I am still in command. I will command what is to be done in Yanquítlan.”
The old man nodded, then raised his voice and shouted to the soldiers bunched on the path, “You men! Break ranks and spread out. Make a skirmish line up and down the riverbank. Move!”
“Tell me what has happened!” cried Béu, wringing her hands. “Tell me what we are about to do!”
“Nothing,” I said, my voice a croak. “You do nothing, Béu.” I swallowed the impediment in my throat, and I blinked my eyes clear of tears, and I did my best to stand up straight and strong. “You do nothing but stay here, on this side of the water. Whatever you hear from over here, and however long it goes on, do not move from this spot until I come for you.”
“Stay here alone? With that?” She pointed at the corpse.
I said, “Do not fear that one. Be happy for that one. In my first rage I was too hasty. I gave that one an easy release.”
Angry at Everybody shouted, “You men! Advance in skirmish line across the river. Make no sound from here on. Encircle the village area. Let no least person escape, but surround them all and then wait for orders. Come, Mixtli, if you think you must.”
“I know I must,” I said, and I was the first to wade into the water.
$Nochípa had spoken of dancing for the people of Yanquítlan, and so she was doing. But it was not the restrained and modest dancing which I had always seen her do. In the purple dusk, in the mixture of twilight and firelight, I could see that she was totally unclothed, that she danced with no grace, but with grossly indecent sprawlings of her legs, while she waved two white wands above her head, occasionally reaching one of them out to tap some person who pranced near.
Though I did not want to, I raised my topaz to see her more clearly. The only thing she wore was the necklace of opals I had given her when she was four years old, and to which I had added a new firefly stone on each of the eight birthdays—the so very few birthdays—she had had since. Her usually braided hair hung loose and tangled. Her breasts were still firm little mounds, and her buttocks still shapely, but between her thighs, where her maiden tipíli should have been almost invisible, there was a rent in her skin, and through it protruded a flopping male tepúli and jiggling sac of olóltin. The white things she waved were her own thigh bones, but the hands that waved them were a man’s, and her own half-severed hands dangled limply from his wrists.
A cheer went up from the people as I stepped inside the circle of them dancing around the dancing thing that had been my daughter. She had been a child, and a shining, and they had made carrion of her. That effigy of Nochípa came dancing toward me, one glistening bone extended, as if she would give me a blessing tap before I hugged her in a father’s loving embrace. The obscene thing came close enough for me to look into the eyes that were not Nochípa’s eyes. Then its dancing feet faltered, it ceased to dance, it stopped just out of my reach, stopped by my look of loathing and revulsion. And when it stopped, so did the gleeful crowd stop its milling and its prancing and its joyful noise, and the people stood looking uneasily at me and at the soldiers who had ringed the site. I waited until nothing could be heard but the crackling of the celebration fires. Then I said, addressing nobody in particular:
“Seize this foul creature—but seize him gently, for he is all that remains of a girl who once was alive.”
The small priest in Nochípa’s skin stood blinking in unbelief, and then two of my warriors had him. The other five or six priests of the tra
in came shouldering through the crowd, angrily protesting my interruption of the ceremony. I ignored them and said to the men holding the god-impersonator:
“Her face is separate from her body. Remove the face from him—with the greatest care—and bear it reverently to that fire yonder, and say some small prayer for her who gave it beauty, and burn it. Bring me the opals she wore at her throat.”
I averted my own face while that was done. The other priests began to rage even more indignantly, until Angry at Everybody gave such a fearsome snarl that the priests became as quiet and meek as the motionless crowd.
“It is done, Knight Mixtli,” said one of my men. He handed me the necklace; some of the firefly stones were red with Nochípa’s blood. I turned again to the captive priest. He no longer wore my daughter’s hair and features, but his own face, and it twitched with fright.
I said, “Lay him supine on the ground, right here, being very careful not to lay rough hands on my daughter’s flesh. Peg his hands and feet to the ground.”
He was, like all the priests of the train, a young man. And he screamed like a boy when the first sharp stake was hammered through his left palm. He screamed four times altogether. The other priests and people of Yanquítlan moved and murmured, rightly apprehensive of their own fate, but all my soldiers held their weapons at the ready, and no one dared be the first to try to run. I looked down at the grotesque figure on the ground, writhing against the four stakes that fixed its spraddled extremities. Nochípa’s youthful breasts proudly pointed their russet nipples toward the sky, but the male genitals protruding from between her spread legs had gone flaccid and shrunken.