Tequila's Sunrise (2 page)

“Then whisper if you are ashamed, so that our sisters won’t hear.”

Quintox lowered his voice. His eyes were wide. His bottom lip trembled. “I dreamed that Cortes was really Quetzalcoatl.”

Chalco stiffened. He glanced around quickly, making sure the rest of the family hadn’t heard his brother’s blasphemy. Such talk could lead to only one thing—Quintox being sacrificed to Tlaloc, the rain god who required children several times a year as tribute. Although the priests also gathered children’s tears in a ceremonial bowl as an offering, that would not be Quintox’s fate. Not for blasphemy. He would shed blood rather than tears. To compare Quetzalcoatl, the Plumed Serpent, greatest of all the gods, to Cortes, the leader of the Spanish invaders, was unforgivable.

“Stop that right now. I mean it. No more of this talk.”

“But Chalco, the priests say that this is the year Quetzalcoatl is supposed to return. Remember? He promised that he would come back and deliver us. He would usher in a new era of peace and prosperity. ‘Look to the east’, they say. If this is the end of the world, then surely he must come.”

The boy recited it from memory. The prophecy was ingrained in them all from the time they learned to speak and read. Chalco knew it well. In Tenochtitlan’s grandest place of worship—a temple devoted to Tonatiuh, the sun god—there was a gigantic stone monolith, eighteen feet in diameter and carved from a single, black volcanic rock. It was a calendar. According to the calendar, Quetzalcoatl would return this year to save his faithful servants. He would sail across the ocean from parts unknown and arrive on Oaxaca’s eastern shore. After he’d driven their enemies from the land, one hundred years of peace would follow. So far, none of this had come to pass. Instead of Quetzalcoatl, it had been Cortes and his armies who landed on the eastern shore. They’d carved a swath through the country as they pressed farther inland, claiming to come in peace even while people died. It was a bad omen.

Although he would never admit it out loud, Chalco often wondered if Quetzalcoatl would ever return. Maybe the priests were wrong. Or maybe… maybe the plumed serpent didn’t even exist. Maybe none of the gods did. Perhaps the gods were just stories. It wasn’t the first time he’d considered this, and it filled him with dread. In the light of day, he was sure the gods existed, and fearful they would exact revenge for his doubt.

“Chalco,” Quintox asked. “What are you thinking?”

“Nothing.” Ashamed by his thoughts, Chalco pulled the covers off his little brother and boxed the boy’s ears. “Enough talk. The sun will be up before you are. Get dressed. And don’t speak of this anymore.”

When Quintox was ready, they kissed their mother goodbye and walked down the street to the communal bathhouse. The huts were separated—one for men and one for women. The boys took their place in line and slowly shuffled forward. Once inside, they undressed and then bathed, using sticky soap made from tree sap. Morose slaves poured water over heated rocks and the room filled with steam. As they cleaned themselves, the boys listened to the older men gossip—merchants, craftsmen, medicine doctors, priests, the elderly or infirm, and others who had been excused from Moctezuma’s call to arms.

The talk was mixed; much of it was dire. A black pheasant had been spotted the day before, lurking in the brush near the temple of Huehueteotl. A prisoner of war, condemned to sacrifice, briefly lived after his head was cut from his body. His legs and arms had flopped and jittered while the priest held his severed head aloft. Then his decapitated body tried to run away. Another priest who’d been carrying a stone tray laden with palpitating human hearts had been wounded by a jaguar. The beast leapt from the shadows and mauled the unfortunate victim, and then snatched the offerings from the tray before vanishing. A two-headed calf was born in the night. It cried out like a human and then died. A metalworker came in contact with his wife’s menstrual blood—always an invitation to disaster.

Bad tidings, all.

To make matters worse, these things happened in the midst of an invasion. The Spanish continued with their conquest, and the talk and rumors soon turned to that. It was said they brought their own slaves with them—people with skin as black as coal. The men in the steam room wondered what kind of people these obsidian slaves were. They seemed fierce and proud. Could they not rise up against their captors and break their bonds?

When they’d finished bathing, the boys got dressed again and hurried home for a breakfast of tortillas, beans, and warm goat’s milk. In contrast to the gossip of the bathhouse, Chalco’s family ate in silence. His mother admonished one of his sisters to chew with her mouth closed. Quintox asked for more beans. But other than that, they were quiet. Their mood mirrored the oppressive atmosphere that seemed to hang over all of Monte Alban.

After breakfast was finished, his mother and sisters cleaned the clay bowls while Chalco drew his brother aside.

“I must go hunting today. We need more meat.”

Quintox grew excited. “Can I come with you? Please? Before he left, Father said that I am old enough to start learning how to hunt.”

“And you are.” Chalco smiled. “Soon, I’ll teach you as Father taught me. But not today. There is too much to be done. Mother needs help in the fields—you have a strong back, just like I do. Just like all the men in our clan. You will be more help to us there.”

Quintox’s expression soured. He looked at the ground and pouted.

“But I don’t want to farm. Farming isn’t noble or exciting. I want to hunt—to help.”

“Listen.” Chalco squeezed his shoulder. “It’s war time. We each have to do our part. That is the way it has always been. Remember what we’ve been taught. Nobody is more important than another, except for Lord Moctezuma and the priests. By helping our mother in the fields you are helping us all. That is a very noble thing, Quintox—the noblest thing of all. Honor our clan. And don’t worry. There will be many more days to go hunting, and much game to kill. You’ll get your chance.”

“Promise?”

“I promise.”

Quintox smiled. “I want to grow up just like you. I want to make our father proud, the way you do.”

“Oh, you do, Quintox. You really do. You make our entire clan very proud.”

And he did. Chalco had very recently begun to take an interest in girls, particularly Yamesha, the jewel-cutter’s daughter. He hoped that when the time came, their families might arrange a marriage for them. If so, he hoped that his first child would be a son—and that the boy would be just like his little brother.

Grinning, he gently boxed Quintox’s ears. The younger boy pushed him away. Laughing, they punched one another until their mother spoke up. Her voice was stern and tired.

“Go on now, both of you. Enough talking. You can do that at dinnertime. To the fields with you, Quintox. The sun is coming up. It will be hot in a few hours. It is better to work now, while the air is still cool.”

“Are you not coming, Mother?” Quintox asked.

“I will join you shortly. First, I must stop by the temple and offer prayers for your father and uncles. Chalco, your sisters have prepared a lunch for you to take on the hunt. Don’t forget it.”

“Thank you, Mother. I won’t.”

She kissed them both and then left the hut. Quintox and his sisters departed for the fields. Alone in the dwelling, Chalco gathered his weapons. He strapped a deer hide sheath to his waist and thrust his stone knife into it. Then he collected his bow and strapped a quiver of arrows over his back. Finally, he slung a wicker basket over his other shoulder. Inside were tortillas, wrapped in leaves to keep them fresh, along with two small limes and a water skin sealed with beeswax. The skin was filled with pulque, a slightly alcoholic drink made from agave. Chalco preferred water. He hated the bitter taste of pulque. But it would give him stamina later, and water was too precious to spare. Rain had been scarce this season and water was being rationed.

Chalco departed. The first rays of dawn shone across the sky. With many of the men off to war, the streets were quieter than normal. But in the silence, Chalco heard things he didn’t normally pay attention to. Birds chirped from the rooftops, having returned to their roosts once the morning trumpets faded. A goat snorted as Chalco passed by a trough. A baby wailed from a nearby hut. In one of the temples, the first sacrifice of the day screamed. Several small children chased each other in the street, shrieking in delight. The cries intermingled, becoming indistinguishable from one another—screams or laughter, they sounded the same.

Chalco admired one of the pyramids as he passed by. He wished, not for the first time, that he could build something like it. How grand would that be, to honor the gods and his clan in such a manner? But his skills lay elsewhere, like his father and his father before him. He was a hunter and a farmer—and a warrior. His hands were made for soil and blood, rather than stone and brick. Still, he’d always been enamored with Monte Alban’s artisans and craftsmen. The city’s architecture was marvelous. Chalco hoped that one day soon he might travel to the capital, and gaze upon Tenochtitlan’s fountains and immaculately clean streets. He’d heard so many wonderful stories about the city. They had running water there. The temples were supposed to be the grandest in all of Oaxaca. He longed to traverse the canals, visit the great houses full of books, to touch the golden Codex wheel, and see Lord Moctezuma’s procession as they passed by adorned with bells and jewels and brightly colored feathers. It was said that dancers went before him, casting flower petals on the ground. Chalco thought that it must be a magnificent sight. Perhaps the greatest in all the world.

Chalco shuddered, wondering what would happen to all of Tenochtitlan’s wonders if they fell into the invaders’ hands. Would Monte Alban be next? If so, what would happen to his clan? His family? To his little brother? To Yamesha? The thought made his stomach hurt. Around the next corner, he passed an old woman pushing a cart piled high with woven fabrics. The old woman did not smile. He knew how she felt.

Gripping his bow tightly, Chalco clenched his teeth and walked on. He passed by a row of stone monuments—a throne symbolizing Moctezuma’s rule, and several giant heads representing the previous rulers. Slaves scrubbed bird droppings from the carvings. They hummed as they worked. The tune was sad.

When he arrived at the marketplace, the city came to life, bustling with sound and activity. Voices cried out between the stalls, bartering and selling, and alternately praising or beseeching Yacatecuhtli, the god of merchants. The market thrummed with smells and sights. There was livestock and wild game: rabbits, lizards, serpents, quail, partridges, turkeys, pigeons, parrots, and goats—some alive and others freshly killed. He ignored these, thankful as always that he came from a clan of hunters. There was no need to spend money on such things when you could kill it yourself.

Flipping his bangs away from his eyes, Chalco passed by a row of apothecaries. In front of the structures, merchants sold medicinal herbs and roots, as well as charms and totems. There was a barbershop, a rug-maker, and a metalworker. On a small platform, sullen slaves—mostly the children of other slaves or prisoners of war from beyond Oaxaca’s borders—were sold like livestock. Sometimes, Chalco felt sorry for the slaves. But they were necessary. Prostitutes preened in a side-alley, ready to start another day. With so many of the men gone, their business was down. Craftsmen shouted, hawking their various wares and services. There were stalls of cotton, thread, sandals, animal skins, blankets, dyes, pottery, ceramic dolls, trinkets, amulets, rope, bricks and mortar, oils, paints, charcoal, beads, paper, tobacco, salt, gold, silver, precious stones like jade and amber, feathers and quetzal plumes, earrings and nose ornaments, weapons, tackle, wicker baskets, and even imported lumber (since Monte Alban had sparse woodlands).

Chalco’s mouth watered as he passed by maize, beans, maguey, peppers, cereals, squash, sweet potatoes, pumpkins, tomatoes, nuts, and chocolate. If the hunt was bountiful, he would sell some wild game on his return and buy some chocolate for his mother and siblings. That would make them happy. For the first time since his departure, Chalco smiled.

He reached the outskirts of the city and passed through the fields. Clan members and slaves worked alongside each other, tending rows of maize and beans, and gathering tree sap to make rubber and soap. An apiary buzzed with honeybees. Smoke curled from a burning sewage pit. A group of warriors—left behind to guard Monte Alban when the rest of the men had gone—wound their way along a narrow trail, traveling down into the valley below. Their faces were grim, their bodies painted. Chalco wondered where they were going, but didn’t ask.