Climate of Change (44 page)

“She understands that. But if her presence makes you uncomfortable, there is no requirement. Your house has been good for her already.”

No requirement—but not one to be lightly declined. “If she understands—”

“I will detail a slave to assist your work.”

So Keeper and Craft went out to secure the water supply, and Tula went with them. The slave was named Kettle, and he answered to her; he was evidently trusted. He never spoke; he was, it seemed, mute, but he responded well in action. He had scars of the type obtained in war; perhaps he was a captive from a prior campaign. Slaves who could be trusted could be well treated, and given considerable responsibility.

They made a tour of the closest wells. The first was a crevice in the stone that dripped water from its sides, forming a pool in the base. It contained ashes and rubbish; the Toltec takeover had spread considerable debris. Keeper and Craft used a fine net to seine the water, clearing what they could.

“Why?” Tula inquired, interested.

“People must drink this water,” Keeper explained, in the same manner he would have to his own daughter. “It needs to be clean.”

Her face brightened, as if this were a wonderful discovery. Keeper felt a foolish thrill; it was nice to have his explanation appreciated. He reminded himself that she was this way with everyone, and wondered again where her true interest lay.

“Time and the spirits will make it pure,” Craft remarked.

As they walked between wells, Tula addressed Craft. “What are Maya time and spirits?”

She was Toltec, and their concepts did not match. “This is complicated,” Craft demurred.

“Make it simple.”

Keeper had to smile, privately. This girl would not be diverted from her passing interest.

Craft tried. “Time is measurable, directional, and cyclical.” He paused, realizing that this had to be way beyond the comprehension of a seven-year-old child. “You see how the days pass, and the seasons, and the years. In the old days we had an intricate calendar based on interacting cycles of set length.” He paused again. “You know how there are special days, and holy days, and celebrations?” The girl nodded;
those were things she understood. “We had a ritual almanac that counted off months of thirteen days, and twenty months, making a cycle of 260 days. But we also had a solar calendar of eighteen months of twenty days each, with five days added at the end, making a cycle of 365 days.”

“Which is the right one?” she asked alertly.

“Both. They are just different systems. The way each child has a father and a mother; the two are different, yet they interact.” He paused again, evidently realizing that this was a cruel analogy for a child without a mother. “I mean—”

“I know what you mean,” Tula said sharply. “I had a mother. Now I need another.”

“Yes. Now—”

“Why do you say you
had
these calendars? What happened to them?”

Keeper kept his face straight. The child was paying attention.

Craft took it in stride. “The calendars remain, but we have lost much of the use of them. Time and space are inseparable; the heavens and the underworld are bound together with the physical realm we know. Time is intricately linked with direction, and each major direction has its own color and tree, supporting the heavens. Our buildings were oriented with space and time in mind. But after the drought, a century ago, many cities lost the way, and so did our Xlacah. Our newer buildings are oriented at a different angle, and the old wisdom seems no longer to apply. I regret this; I believe the old system was the finest we could have.”

“A father and a mother,” she agreed.

“Yes. The beauty of it was the way the two calendars interacted. They were juxtaposed—” He paused, searching for a simpler term. “They were compared, and they matched every fifty-two years. That was the Calendar Round, a special cycle. Then the Long Count recorded the Great Cycle, to set events absolutely in time, even thousands of years.”

“Is that how long it will take to make the well water pure?”

Craft laughed. “Not quite that long, I think.”

“And what of the spirits?”

“Keeper can explain that better. He is the one in tune with the spirits.”

But they were coming to a well, and had to break off, to Keeper's relief. Did the child really understand these complex concepts? If not, why did she pursue them so diligently?

The next two wells were clean. But the fourth was bad: there was a body in it. An old woman, who must have tried to resist the intruders, and been deemed unworthy of rape; it looked as if she had been bashed on the head and thrown here. Her head was facedown in the water, the gory back of her head showing. Her feet were out of the pool on the other side.

They assessed the best way to pull her out. She was fairly solid; both of them would have to haul, and she would drag.

“Maybe you should wait over there,” Keeper suggested to the child, not wanting her to see the detail too clearly.

“But we can help,” she protested.

“I don't think—”

“Kettle!” she called.

The slave stepped forward. He was a solid man, well muscled. He took hold of the feet and hauled. The body lurched as if alive. He braced and hauled again, dragging the head through the water.

Keeper and Craft jumped to catch hold of her flopping arms, adding their power to that of the slave. In a moment they had dragged her unceremoniously to a dry-land hollow some distance from the water.

“We had better bury her,” Keeper said. “So she won't stink.”

Kettle used his hands to scrape dirt over the body. This wasn't fast or elegant, but it was getting the job done. The slave did not seem to be bright, but he was a hard worker. Craft used his shell-claw to break the ground, freeing more dirt.

Keeper returned to the well. Tula was trying to use the seine on it, but lacked the size and reach to be effective. She was frustrated, and wore a villainous expression—which faded like morning mist the moment she spied Keeper. “Let me help you,” Keeper said, catching hold of an end. She smiled up at him, agreeing.

They passed the net through the water, fetching out twigs and
grass. But it remained cloudy. “I don't want to drink it,” the girl said, wrinkling her nose.

“After a while, the water will clear,” he explained. “It keeps flowing through, carrying the bad things away. Then people can drink it again.”

“Oh, good.” But her enthusiasm seemed less than complete. Keeper was privately glad to see her reacting normally. Then she reverted to her inquiring mode. “What of the spirits?”

“The Mayan gods appear in a host of guises and under many different names,” he explained. “Most gods have a different aspect associated with each direction. Each also has contradictory traits, such as male and female, old and young, or good and evil. They guide the growing plants, and the stars in the sky, and the lives of mortal folk like us. For example, there is the Sun, who is bright in the sky by day, and by night rules the underworld as the Jaguar God. There is the Moon, also called Lady Rainbow, who presides over weaving, divination, childbirth, and medicine.”

“Yes!” she agreed. “I want to know all about her.”

He continued his explanations, and she seemed to understand, which was gratifying.

When they returned to the house, after clearing several wells, Keeper made it a point to compliment the child's efforts. “She really helped,” he concluded. It was true, though most of it was because of the stout work of the slave, Kettle, there because of her.

After that, Tula went with him when he went out to work, accompanied by the slave. When she tired, or the pace was too fast for her, Kettle simply picked her up and carried her. The man never spoke, but it was clear that he, too, liked the child, and was glad to help her in any way.

One day they passed a field of maize. The plants were growing well, but were drying out. “I think the farmer is gone,” Keeper said. “We should find someone to tend this garden, so the crop won't be lost.”

“Why?” Tula asked.

“Because food is scarce, after the recent trouble. We need to salvage all we can. Soon these ears of maize will ripen, and then they will feed many people. If the plants get water.” He looked around, and spied a
bucket made from a large gourd. This was a dry patch; the farmer must have watered it frequently. “I see there's a well; maybe we can fetch some water.”

Kettle went to the bucket, and took it to the well. He dipped it full, and carried it back to the garden. Keeper found another gourd, and Tula found a small one. She never shirked her share. The three of them carried water to splash on the garden until it was well soaked.

Keeper was getting to like the little girl despite his wariness about her motives. She was bright, and she liked to help. The slave, reflecting her wishes, was quite useful too. When they returned to the house, he let the others know.

“Wait till you learn what your daughter has been doing,” Haven said.

“Allele?”

“She went out with Tuho. She has gotten interested in military things.”

It was true. Tula was interested in nature, and avidly absorbed anything Keeper told her. Allele, impressed with the Toltec military formations, was similarly interested in the things Tuho had to tell her. “We seem to have exchanged children,” Tuho remarked half ruefully.

“The attention of children is brief,” Keeper said. “They will lose interest soon enough.”

“Tula will not. But Allele—I think she views me as an emissary from the Death God, because of the scene on the battlefield. But I would never hurt a child.”

“We did not know you then. Rebel would have killed her.”

“And I respect Rebel for that. I would expect her to do the same for Tula, given a similar situation. But I want never to see that situation.”

“Agreed, sir!” Then, venturing what might be a delicate matter: “Your daughter is special, but I don't think I quite understand her.”

“I hardly understand her myself. She has a will of obsidian, but she masks it. Yet I am sure she likes your household, and wishes it no ill.”

“She has impressed us all. Yet at times she hardly seems like a child.”

“I think her loss of family toughened her. She didn't cry when her
mother died, though I know she cared greatly. She has always been attentive to me, as if I am the one who needs care. That is why I wanted her in a complete, functional family: to learn the ways of it. Your family has exceeded my expectation in that respect; Tula is thriving.”

“Yet in due course you will be moving on to another station. Then she will have to leave this family.”

“This is a concern. But right now, it is well.”

Allele did lose interest, and returned to her usual pursuits around the house and garden. But Tula did not. She stayed close to Rebel in the evening, and to Keeper in the daytime, being pleasant to the others but not devoted. At first this seemed natural, because her father was out most of the day, and she seemed uninterested in childish things; she wanted to be with a man.

“You are a father,” Haven said. “When she's not with her own, she wants to be with another proven father.”

“What of Harbinger?”

“You are the father of a girl like her.”

Oh. At any rate, when Keeper went out, Tula always wanted to go with him, and usually she could, because his tasks were routine, not dangerous. The slave always came, and it was apparent that Kettle could and would protect her if so required. But apart from that, it was as if the slave did not exist; he was part of the background.

Tula eagerly listened to all that Keeper had to say about the growing for maize, beans, squash, peppers and other staples, and how water was vital to them all. “Drought is the terror,” he explained. “Drought can destroy crops, and people too, for we can't live if we can't eat.”

“Yes!” she agreed warmly. “The Old City survives because it has water.”

“To a degree,” he agreed.

“Why?” She meant that she wanted further explanation.

“Let me show you.” They went to the central plaza, where the huge Ceremonies Complex dominated the landscape. The platform rose in three sloping terraces to four times the height of a tall man. The building on it was over a hundred paces long, with three huge vaulted chambers, and thirty-five doors facing north.

But people were living in those chambers now. “This is desecration,” Keeper said. “Since the priests left, there is no one to enforce the sacred strictures, and refugees from the drought-struck region are taking up residence. See how little they care for it. There is garbage on the floor.”

“Why did the priests go?”

“The city is under new administration. New people, who don't want the old ways followed.”

He was afraid she would ask more specific questions, but perhaps she understood enough not to. Instead she changed the subject. “Promise me to answer.”

“I always answer to the best of my ability.”

Her gaze flashed. For a moment she looked like what she would one day become: a ranking Toltec woman. “Promise.”

Keeper glanced at Kettle, uncertain what this meant, but there was no answer there. “I promise.”

“Why did Rebel want to kill Allele?”

She had heard about the scene on the battlefield, when Rebel had held a knife to Allele's throat. Allele must have told her. “Rebel would never hurt Allele,” he temporized.

She brushed this away like so much chaff. “You promised!”

So he had, and she would not be denied. “It is not good for a woman or a girl to be caught by enemy troops. It is better for her to die.”

“Why?”

She wanted to know the detail. “This would be better for your father to explain.”

“He won't.”

So Tuho did deny his daughter in this respect. “That is because he doesn't want to hurt you.”