Obsidian Puma (The Aztec Chronicles Book 1)
“Why didn’t you run after us?” he asked the girl, her limbs as pointy but softer, welcome against his various parts.
He could feel her shrugging lightly, as though not uncomfortable in his semi embrace.
“In the reeds, it was safer.” As expected, Ahuitzotl was the one to jump into defending their stand.
“Safer, oh yes. And that’s why we had to run back, rescuing you two.”
Axolin’s snicker wafted in the darkness.
“We just didn’t think those men would find us,” ventured Chantli, her breath warm against his cheek. For a wild moment, he imagined pulling her closer, finding her lips with his. An insane thought. “And they wouldn’t, if you didn’t start arguing,” she went on, turning in the general direction of their youngest and most spirited company, a wet tendril of her hair striking Necalli’s face, irritating for some reason. Abruptly, he moved his head away, bumping it painfully against Axolin’s shoulder.
“I didn’t start arguing,” cried the boy out hotly. “I –”
“Shut up and stop screaming.” Necalli rolled his eyes once again, then listened to the hesitant splashing of the paddle. “Can you see where we are going?”
Patli muttered something, not comprehensible in the least.
“It is taking us too long. We should have –”
An ear-splitting screech accompanied by a powerful shove made him lurch forward, knocking his head against the rough wood of their boat’s side. It swerved wildly and for a moment looked as though about to overturn. His panic back, he threw his body backwards, dragging the girl along, hitting too many flailing limbs in his wake. For a moment, Patli’s paddle’s desperate splashing seemed to be the only sound. Then the boat lurched again, spraying them with a generous amount of muddy water, wavering for several more heartbeats, creaking in a pitiful way. A darker shade towered above, blocking the last of the moonlight.
“We are under the causeway somewhere,” breathed Axolin, scrambling back into a sitting position, stepping on Necalli’s thigh in the process.
“Watch it!” Careful not to upset their boat again or make his friend fall out of it, he pushed the intruding foot away, straightening into a sitting position himself. The girl was scurrying by his side, picking herself up as well. He steadied her before pushing himself past.
“Give me that paddle.”
The telpochcalli boy, nothing but a faint silhouette, recognizable by his drooping shoulders, gave up his tool without resistance.
“We need a light! At least a little bit of it.”
“Tell us something we don’t know.” Axolin sounded satisfyingly spirited, back to his spicy sharp-tongue self, unlike down there in the tunnel. Necalli grinned, reassured. Together they’d find a way to bring them back safely.
“Shut up.” Narrowing his eyes, he surveyed the dark mass spreading above their heads and to their sides, distinct even in the pitch black of the night. “If we follow it, we’ll get either back home or to Tlatelolco, won’t we?”
“And then we just cross back to Tenochtitlan using the causeway,” cried out Chantli, sounding excited and unconcerned. “The easiest thing.”
“Not that easy,” drawled Axolin, clearly rolling his eyes, maybe in amusement. “But yes, having no better ideas…”
“That’s better than sleeping in calmecac,” declared Ahuitzotl all of a sudden, his voice atypically perky, ringing with a surprising ease. “Better and more fun.”
Necalli pursed his lips, putting it all into the attempt to push the boat away from the slippery earthwork. The thought of calmecac was not an encouraging one. But they would be punished most severely this time, with no halfhearted scolding and a few direful promises. A bother!
“That’s what you think,” he muttered, shaking his head while struggling to make their overloaded vessel move. “But I bet even royal pilli get disciplined for doing wild things.”
The little brat chuckled smugly. “Not like the city boys, that’s for sure.”
“City boys? I bet your royal back will absorb some rough treatment for this night.”
“It won’t.” An annoying little bugger!
The boat lurched again, bumping against the slippery surface of the earthwork’s wide base. A new rush of marshy water washed over them.
“You can start by rowing better than that.” Axolin staggered to the side, rocking the boat once again. “Give me that paddle.”
“Go away.” He shoved his friend with none of the force he wished to apply, fighting to maintain the boat’s balance, pushing yet another darker mass, so slippery and unsteady against the splintered wood of the oar, just a crudely carved stick, really. But for a flicker of light, only a tiny little spark. They were so hopelessly lost, and what if they got carried away, away from this causeway and both islands and into the depths of the Great Lake. In this overloaded nutshell, they would go down faster than it’d take one to say ‘Tlatelolco.’ He cursed through his clenched teeth.
“If we only had another paddle or stick.” The girl’s voice wafted in the darkness, calm and pleasantly soft, with no hysterical or incensed tones to it. He felt a surge of warmth rushing through his stomach, making it tighter but in a good way.
“We’ll manage. Just watch for it from your side. Push anything harder than air away if you can.”
Again, the thought of ahuitzotls made the good feeling disperse. But were the Spiny Ones feeling their staggering? Were they gathering around, swimming closer, licking their whiskers – did they have such things? – whipping their palm-fingered tails, readying for a satisfying meal? So many eyes and fingernails! Ah, and teeth, plenty of those to offer. He shuddered again, feeling his bandaged arm cramping, straining more than the other one, aching dully. Oh mighty deities!
For a while, they proceeded uninterrupted, with no darker shapes lurking, lying in wait, determined to see them sputtering in the water. No more foul-smelling obstacles pounced on their staggering vessel, and while enjoying the benefit of a smoother sail, he could not but start to wonder. Where were they?
“We should have reached Tenochtitlan by now.” Patli’s miserable whisper tore the silence. It was so eerily quiet. No murmuring of the reeds, no twittering of the night insects. Just the splash of the paddle, the uneven pitifully hesitant sound.
“We must be close to it.” As always, the girl had nothing but positive things to say, still even her voice lacked the previous cheerful firmness. “Aren’t we?”
“Yes, we are!” stated Necalli stubbornly, refusing to think of other possibilities. “Close to this or that shore. Not the other side of the causeway, but maybe the wharves, or any other shore.”
“Yes, that’s what I thought,” confirmed Chantli when no one else ventured a word. Even the boy Ahuitzotl had sunk into gloomy silence and just as they needed his spicy presence and brazen remarks.
“What do you think, Axolin?” he asked in desperation, hating the almost imploring tone to his voice.
“Nothing good.” What a talker. Necalli cursed through his clenched teeth.
More drifting in the pitch black. But it was like a journey through the Underworld, a helpless wandering. He put it all into the strikes of his paddle, uncomfortable and cramped as he was, with his arm hurting with every strike, but his spirit soaring. He would get them somewhere, anywhere!
“Did you hear it?” Ahuitzotl’s cry made him jump, interrupting his rowing, causing his paddle to lose its tempo. The boat wavered precariously, splashing them with a new surge of warm flow. “There, to the left.”
He spat the muddy taste from his mouth, the warmth of the water revolting. “Where? What?” The others were stirring nervously, rocking the boat even worse.
“Stop jumping around!” He struggled with the stupid stick, shifting it left and right, aware of the increasing wavering and the helpless spin their only means of survival was getting into. “What did you hear?”
“Reeds; there are reeds out there!” The boy was shouting shrilly now, panicked as they all were,
trying to overcome the tumult. He could feel Chantli scurrying about and Axolin throwing himself toward what he hoped would be the opposite side as their canoe was careening helplessly, with his, Necalli’s, limbs partly under the water, his elbow and side, still flapping his paddle but with no notable results. Patli was moaning somewhere at the bottom of the leaking wreck, whimpering in an annoying voice.
“Stop it! Someone make him shut up!” He felt the crude stick slipping from his slick grip and didn’t manage to even attempt recapturing it as by then his entire body was sliding out along with the toppling-over vessel, and there was nothing he could do about it but to remember to hold his breath.
The water was colder than the ripples that reached them while still in the boat, as revoltingly muddy, making him gag. He kicked back for the surface, his hands flailing wildly, desperate to grab something steady, anything, acting on their own accord. When his elbow hit something greasy and splintered, he clutched it and didn’t let it go.
It was the bottom of their overturned boat, his senses told him, calming gradually now that there was something to cling to, something steadier than the blackness and the merciless water, eager to swallow them all.
Clawing his way up the greasy bark, he listened to the wild splashing, then, still clinging to it with his good arm, reached out, grabbing a handful of clothing. A desperate pull had his precarious perch wavering, about to topple again maybe, but the struggling form was still beside him, coughing and spitting.
“Where is Chantli?” he sputtered, himself retching as viciously, his nose clogged with mud, his mouth lined with it, or so it seemed.
“Th-there,” heaved the boy, coughing between wild gasps. “Th-there. Other side. O-other side of the boat.”
“Wait here!”
To let go of his slippery perch was an effort, not coming easily, shaming him. Holding his breath, he slid toward the worst of the clamor, the gagging and the sputtering coming indeed from what seemed to be the other side of their floating obstacle. It was reassuring to have it around, even if slimy and precariously unsteady. One hand on the slippery slickness, he tried to reach into the spluttering scuffle without being hit by too many thrashing limbs.
“Chantli!”
Catching something, a handful of hair, he pulled as forcefully as he could, his grip on the boat slipping. He could hear someone gasping, choking in no promising way. It wasn’t hard to recognize Patli’s angular limbs. Didn’t the stupid commoner know how to swim?
“Hold on to the boat!” he yelled, crushing the thin body against its slimy roughness, kicking the grip of the persistent fingers away. But this one was a pest! Charging into the agitated water again, Necalli held his breath, worried now. She surely didn’t know how to swim. Why would she?
The soundlessness enveloped him again, the murky depths. Fighting the urge to kick back to surface and the relative safety it offered, he dove under the wavering bark, feeling plenty of movement, probably that of the kicking feet belonging to the clinging survivors. Still, he charged toward the most desperate churn, his senses informing him that it was too deep, under the boat and not beside it, to belong to any of those attached to its sides. There was a little air to be had here, under the vessel’s insides, and as his hand caught something, a handful of wet material, then the pleasant roundness of the familiar shoulder, his spirit soared. Oh yes, no mistakes this time.
Pulling her firmly, paying no attention to the desperation of her struggle, he made them dive back and away from this trap, careful not to get hit by her pummeling limbs. By the time they surfaced, she was clutching to him in the most hurtful of ways and with a surprising strength, arresting his movements, interfering with his ability to swim.
Swallowing more and more water, he struggled back toward the drifting boat, near panic again, not sure of its whereabouts. If only the terrible darkness would disperse. The temptation to push her away grew. Why was she clinging to him so? Why wouldn’t she let him hold her in a comfortable way instead of trying to make them both drown? But for the rippling all around his face, he would have yelled at her. As it was, he didn’t even dare to open his mouth, the water splashing everywhere, covering them again, claiming them to be its victims, a worthy sacrifice to mighty Tlaloc. Or maybe a good meal for the monsters inhabiting its depths. The thought of ahuitzotls gave his panicked mind strength to kick for the surface again, forcefully enough to have them both popping out like dry pieces of bark.
Letting his instincts guide him, he charged toward what looked like a thicker darkness, his ears informing him that it must be the correct direction, with all its choking and spluttering. And when Axolin’s unmistakable palm wrapped around his elbow, pulling with great force, he knew they were temporarily safe.
Chapter 15
The girl was thin and painfully angular, her face nothing but sharp angles, surprisingly pleasant to look at but unsettling. One would expect at least some roundness watching a human face.
Meeting her curiosity-filled gaze once again, Miztli took his eyes away, embarrassed. She had been sneaking those glances aplenty, all fidgety upon her perch at the edge of the wooden dais, among the colorfully dressed noble crowd. His own position at the base of this same towering podium was not nearly as comfortable, enjoying no benefits of the additional height, able to see only the nearest warriors and contestants. Still, the crowds that filled the spacious plaza under the shadow of the Great Pyramid were in a worse situation, most of them seeing nothing unless climbing on something elevated, even the nearest smaller pyramids’ stairs.
Acutely aware of his abductor’s nearness, the man’s palm locked around his elbow uncompromisingly, crushing it in its firm grip, relaying a message, Miztli tried to concentrate on the magnificent show of colors in front of his eyes, grimly amused. Compared to his previous day and two nights, he wasn’t so badly off, come to think of it. Oh yes, he was certainly better off standing among these well-to-do people, dressed in clean loincloth, his feet encased in the unfamiliar sensation of sandals’ straps, awkward but strangely comfortable at the same time, his shoulders covered with another pleasantly soft cloth, like the cloaks sported all around here as in Tenochtitlan, those well-dressed crowds, a wonder. This beat not only the ghastly time of captivity, but the days of sweating next to the braziers of the melting room or working the fields of his home village. He tried not to snort. But for the dull pain in the back of his head and in other various beaten parts, and most of all, his kidnapper’s uncompromising grip and his grim tension-filled presence, he might have enjoyed himself like never before. What fascinating, beautiful, lively clamor!
Another covert glance up that same lower dais informed him that the beautiful Tenochtitlan princess, his current benefactress, or rather, an eager user, was already there, sitting straight-backed, magnificent and aloof, decidedly above her surroundings. Other lavishly dressed women flanked her, some waving their prettily feathered fans, as haughty as the princess, unattainable and remote, some chatting happily, beaming with excitement, exchanging lively comments, their colorfulness and the sparkling of their jewelry hurting the eye.
The girl on the lower tier was still staring at him, wide-eyed. This time, he returned her gaze, somewhat incensed. Why was she gawking at him so? Her eyes were large and widely spaced, tilted at their edges quite sharply, pleasing the eye but in a strange fashion. They remained fixed on him, filling with what looked like a challenge, not about to be stared down. He made a face at her, then looked back at the warming-up warriors when the rock-hard fingers yanked at his elbow, pressing as though trying to crush it.
“Don’t gawk, you stupid cub,” hissed the man angrily, not easing the intensity of his squeeze. “Do what you are told.”
Clenching his teeth, Miztli made it a point not to squirm or show his discomfort otherwise. Deliberately slow, he transferred his gaze from the crowds splashing on the other side of the podiums with the dais, two in their number, towering loftily, enjoying the shadow of the nearby pyramid. Warriors armed with l
ong, dangerous-looking spears kept the rest of the crowds at bay, not letting anyone near.
The competitors, different from the guarding warriors by their prettier-looking attire of loincloths and cloaks alone, were the ones he was supposed to watch, he remembered. To watch and to report to the boy Ahuitzotl, whose name he had used to such telling effect. The results of the impending contest and the local ruler’s speech about it, whatever was his name. He didn’t remember. Moqui-something. The neglected princess of Tenochtitlan’s royal house did not come to elaborate as she promised to do at night. Neither did she send to him anything but a maid with instructions, which left his abductor to elaborate and enlighten on his own.
Not in a hurry to take Miztli’s ties off despite the clear orders, not trusting him to behave reasonably, as he was willing to inform his prisoner again and again, the man did bring him food and drink, and even sent for a skinny foreign-looking slave loaded with smelly ointments and balms, all the while talking about what he, Miztli, was expected to do if they decided to trust him and what would happen to him if concluded otherwise. In the end, he felt like promising anything, mainly in order to have the man stop talking and let him rest. And maybe release his ties. His hands had no feeling in them anymore, and his back felt like a wooden plank, stiff to be point of being ready to crack. But didn’t the woman tell them to treat him well?
Only when the dawn was about to break and people came to talk to his unrelenting watchdog, the man did cut his ties, breaking into more dire promises as he did. Yet all he cared about was the possibility of stretching his limbs, then curling around himself, drifting into a dreamless slumber against the incessant shaking and some kicking around, as his captor kept elaborating on the important mission of watching contesting warriors while listening to Tlatelolco’s mighty ruler making mighty speeches and memorizing every word of those – as though he could do something like that – or else. Then it was again a long colorful description of the various slow torturous possibilities included in ‘or else,’ but by that time, he truly didn’t care. The sleep was more alluring.