The Goldsmith's Daughter (6 page)

T
he fire I had struggled to douse was not the only disaster to befall Tenochtitlán at that time. Some days later, a second temple in the south of the city – that of the god Quetzalcoatl – was struck by a bolt from the sky and burst into flames. I did not see it happen, but word of it spread like a chilling breeze, causing men's brows to furrow and women to whimper softly with fear. There had been no storm, no preceding rumble of thunder, and so it was whispered that the temple had been hit with a blow from the sun. Why the gods should thus turn on each other was a mystery no priest could explain, but there could be no doubt it boded ill.

After that came a day of bright, brilliant sunshine. The sky was clear, the air crisp, with a biting edge that warned of the winter to come. With some determination, I laid aside my own anxiety, telling myself sternly that nothing could happen on a day of such beauty. Taking the honey I had drawn from our rooftop hives, I went alone to the lakeside to barter. Mitotiqui had expressed a desire to eat fresh fish, and I sorely wanted to soothe his ruffled temper.

The fisherman I was used to trading with was in his canoe, some distance from the shore. I would wait for his return. The day was lovely, the lake calm; I welcomed the chance to enjoy a little tranquillity. For too long, it seemed, my heart had been unsettled. Solitude would ease away my troubles.

Sitting myself down beside the lake in the shade of the willows, I watched the fisherman cast his net as if it were a weightless thing. I knew well that it was not. Once – long ago – he had let Mitotiqui and me try the skill for ourselves. Standing on the ground, we had barely been able to lift the complex construction of knotted twine from the earth. If we had attempted such a thing in a canoe we would certainly have toppled overboard. How he had laughed to see us struggling, tangling ourselves in the net like a large catch! I smiled to recall it.

Moments later the fisherman hauled, hand over hand, pulling his net out with ease, the scales of many fish glinting silver in the sun. But as I watched, the distant fish became so dazzling that I had to blink hard, shutting my eyes against their glare. When I opened them, it was no better. The whole lake seemed suddenly ablaze. In the blinding light I could barely trace the fisherman's outline. He stood frozen in his canoe, back bent, head tilted skywards in awe of the spectacle above him.

I looked up, and expelled a sharp cry. I backed away, desperately looking for a place to run, to hide. But where could I run? How could I hide from the sky itself? For above me a ball of fire was tearing across the heavens. Larger than the sun, it lit the world below so brightly that I was seared by its brilliance. It split the sky, ripping it apart and leaving a black wound to mark its passing. Then it fell where the sun rises, trailing a shower of sparks like a hail of red-hot coals.

It took less time to pass than it takes to roll a tortilla. When it was gone, a dreadful quiet remained. I could see no one but myself and the fisherman, but I could feel the sense of horror rising from the city behind me as strong as the heat of summer. After the last spark came to earth it was as though every inhabitant stood mouth open, unable to speak. Then, with one breath, all began to gabble at once. From the edge of the water where I stood, the fearful chatter seemed almost visible, hanging like smoke above the buildings.

The spell was broken.

The fisherman rowed to shore, but when he reached me I saw that his boat was empty. He had lost both catch and net, letting them slip through his fingers as he watched, rigid with terror.

Another incident then occurred which was of longer duration than the ball of fire, and caused much hardship.

After the harvest, when the chinampa fields lay stripped and bare and the maize was dried and stored for winter, a high wind sprang up from a sky that had been perfectly clear and still. In moments it had lashed the lake into a boiling frenzy, stirring up a great wave and driving it towards the city.

I knew nothing of its approach. It was so unexpected, so sudden, that no one had time to give warning. Only when I heard Mayatl's scream of alarm did I turn to see a wall of water surging from the street into our kitchen, picking up reed mats as though they were leaves, sweeping aside cooking vessels, dousing the brazier and pushing it into the courtyard, through my father's chamber and into the workshop beyond. Mayatl stood unmoving, stiff with shock. Wading through the waist-high flood, I seized her hand and pulled her awkwardly up the stairs to the roof. My father – drenched, the necklet he had been working on still clasped in his fist – joined us. From our vantage point we could see that the wave had washed over the fields and destroyed the mud-brick walls of the peasants' dwellings across the canal. While we watched, the water rushed on towards the heart of the city, where my brother would be sitting at his classes.

It was a dreadful sight, but even more dreadful were the words my father then uttered.

“And now it seems Tlaloc is also roused to anger.”

“But why?” I whispered. “What can have so displeased him?”

My father did not answer me directly, but spoke aloud the thoughts in his head that filled my own heart with foreboding. “First we had fire; now comes a flood. I fear the earth itself is becoming unmade…”

Deeply alarmed though we were by this incident, our own house was built of stone so it suffered little real damage. Mitotiqui came home from the calmecac in a canoe, bobbing into our courtyard with a smile upon his face as if the episode was nothing more than a prank played by the gods for their own amusement. His levity grated on my father. We were uncomfortable that night, and the nights that followed, for we had to sleep on the roof amongst the beehives and potted herbs. But our physical discomfort seemed small and insignificant beside the tension that crackled between father and son.

Each portent, each strange happening, each untimely occurrence, was answered by our priests with ever greater sacrifices, for the gods were angered and might perhaps be soothed with blood. The numbers of slaves the traders brought to market grew, and they could be seen daily being led through the streets to the principal temple, where their hearts were given up to appease the gods. We were urged to increase our private devotions: priests went about the city punishing those they considered less than pious; and in every household, men drew their own blood before their shrines. My father could be seen each morning at dawn pricking his flesh with cactus thorns and smearing our idols until red almost blotted out the gleaming gold.

These zealous prayers seemed answered. The flood was followed by a time of calm, and yet the general unease continued. Men stood at every street corner gnawing their lips, and passing women stared fearfully at the ground, their faces creased with anxiety. For at heart we all knew that if the fifth age were truly drawing to a close, no amount of prayer or sacrifice could stop it.

In the great square of Tlaltelolco, each incident had been greeted with dismay and fearful speculation.

But one day Mayatl brought home a tale tucked neatly amongst the fresh vegetables to which I could give no credence. Setting her basket down, she declared, “They say floating temples have been seen!”

“Floating temples?” My incredulous gasp gave her great satisfaction. Her eyes gleamed with the delight of knowing something I did not. “How can such a thing be possible? Where were they?”

“On the sea. In the land of the Maya. Great white pyramids, moving across the water.”

I related Mayatl's words to my father when he ate, but he grunted scornfully. “Travellers' tales, from men who have eaten too many mushrooms. Pay no heed.”

And yet the rumours did not go away, but multiplied until the city swarmed with them. It was impossible to go to market – impossible to venture anywhere – without hearing stories that grew more elaborate with each passing day.

“They say beasts half man, half deer have trodden on the distant shore.”

“The Mayans speak of their magical powers.”

“They have a great pole that makes a noise as loud as thunder! With one blast it will fell a tree!”

“Destroy a mountain!”

“Wipe out an army!”

Unease soured the air, making each indrawn breath taste bitter on the tongue. I could scarcely believe such far-fetched imaginings, yet my own heart stirred with a strange excitement at hearing these stories. They were so like the inventions that Mitotiqui and I had dreamt up as children, I could not resist their appeal. I relished their tang, as I savoured the spicy heat of chilli, and I repeated them at each mealtime to entertain my family. But my brother was morose and sullen, and my father dismissive.

“Strangers are amongst the Maya,” I ventured.

“Strangers?” My father gave a wry laugh. “How could any distinguish a stranger in that land? Who could be more peculiar than a Mayan?”

I smiled briefly at his remark. The Mayans flattened the foreheads of their babies from birth, and hung beads above their cradles so that their eyes grew crossed. Certainly this race looked alien and exotic to the eyes of those from Tenochtitlán.

And yet I persisted. “They say the strangers have pale skin. At the market the talk is of little else.”

“Women must always have something to gossip about, Itacate. They pile untruth on untruth until they have made a monster of nothing. There can be no such strangers. It is not possible. Our emperor rules the whole world. Where could they come from? It is folly even to think such a thing could happen.”

Thus dismissed, I said no more about the matter. Not to my father. But with Mayatl I talked until my tongue was dry. The tales lingered in my head and I could not be free of them. I put them aside only when my father made a proposal that drove all thoughts of strangers far from my mind.

M
y father wished me to work alongside him as his apprentice. He was ageing, and though his eyes were well able to view distant objects, he struggled to focus on what was close to his face. The small detail of the objects he crafted had become increasingly blurred and hazy.

There was great danger in yielding to his wish. To step outside our city's conventions could bring misfortune or even death. If a merchant offended the nobility by mimicking their style of dress, he could be condemned to slavery. If a common man drank the intoxicating pulque reserved for priests and nobles, he could be executed. I knew not what penalty might be inflicted on a father who allowed his daughter to aid his work, or on a girl who agreed to help him, but had no doubt that it would be severe. It was vital that I work in secrecy; I could tell no one. Not Mayatl. Not even Mitotiqui. They must think my father required my company, nothing else.

I had already left off my kitchen tasks, but now the remainder of my domestic duties were passed to a grumbling Mayatl. Daily I crossed the threshold of my father's chamber, passing through it to the rear courtyard, and across that to his workshop. It was a journey of a few short steps, but how far it took me from my old life! My heart joyed to have constant access to a room of such wonders, even as it sorrowed to keep this secret from my brother.

To begin with, my father had simply wished for a helper to grade stones, for he could no longer see the marks and fissures that divided inferior gems from those of higher quality. I found the finest for him, but one morning as I did so could not resist speaking of what it might become.

“Would this not make a fine headdress?” I asked tentatively, holding up a clear and perfect jade.

“Set how?” he said, taking the stone.

“High above the head. So the sun will shine through and illuminate the colour.”

His approving grunt gave me greater confidence. Later, on matching turquoise stones of even size and hue, I ventured, “These speak to me of a breastplate, Father. Would they not look fine arranged in a pattern, thus?”

He nodded at each suggestion I made, and I had the great pleasure of seeing the ideas I provided fashioned by him into marvels of gold. Freed from grinding domesticity, my spirit soared and my mind was unleashed.

It was not long before he moved me on to other tasks: refining beeswax, stoking up the charcoal-heated furnace, setting grains of gold in a vessel to melt. I proved competent, and one afternoon he said softly, “I begin to wonder if the skill in your fingers might match the ideas in your head. I think, perhaps, your talent may exceed my own.” He looked at me thoughtfully, plucking at his ear lobe, his eyebrows drawn together. “I feel the temptation, Itacate. Some god dangles possibilities before me. Am I to yield, or reject them?”

He did not expect me to give an answer; he was merely speaking his thoughts aloud. I sat, head bowed, while he considered my future. “I know not if your skill is a gift from the gods, or a means of bringing disaster down upon us.” He sighed heavily, and was quiet for some time. But when I lifted my face I saw that he had come to a decision. “I find I cannot resist my own curiosity. I am eager to see what you can do. Let us begin.”