Aztec

besotted for having pursued a girl who despised him. Simply to salve his wounded pride, he will take out his humiliation on her, and he can do it in some horrible manner. One of you could prevent his doing that.'

'How?' asked Tlatli.

'Marry her,' I said.

No one will ever know what a heart pang it cost me to say that, for what I meant was, 'I give her up. Take her away from me.' My two friends reeled slightly, and looked at me with goggling astonishment.

'My sister has erred,' I went on. 'I cannot deny it. But you both have known her since we all were children, and you surely know that she is no promiscuous wanton. If you can forgive her misstep, and believe that she did it only to avert the unwelcome prospect of marrying the Lord Joy, then you know that you could find no more chaste and faithful and upstanding wife for yourself. I need not add that she is probably the most beautiful you would ever find.'

The two exchanged an uneasy look. I could hardly blame them. That radical proposal must have hit them with the stunning abruptness of lightning thrown by Tlaloc.

'You are Tzitzi's only hope,' I said urgently. 'Pactli now has her in his power, as a supposed maiden suddenly found to be not so. He can accuse her of having gone astraddle the road. He can even make the lying claim that she was his betrothed and that she was deliberately unfaithful to him. That would be tantamount to adultery, and he could persuade the Lord Red Heron to condemn her to death. But he can not do that to a woman legitimately married or spoken for.'

I looked hard into the eyes of Chimali, then Tlatli. 'If one of you were to step forward and publicly ask for her hand...' They dropped their eyes from mine. 'Oh, I know. It would take some bravery, and it would subject you to some derision. You would be taken for the one who had despoiled her in the first place. But marriage would atone for that, and it would rescue her from anything Pactli might do. It would save her, Chimali. It would be a noble deed, Tlatli. I beg and entreat you.'

They both looked at me again, and there was now real chagrin in their faces. Tlatli spoke for them both:

'We cannot, Mole. Not either of us.'

I was grievously disappointed and hurt, but, more than that, I was puzzled. 'If you said you will not, I might understand. But... you cannot?'

They stood side by side before me, stocky Tlatli and reedy Chimali. They looked pityingly at me, then turned to each other, and I could not tell what was in their mutual gaze. Tentatively, uncertainly, each reached out a hand and took the other's, their fingers intertwining. Standing there, now linked, forced by me to confess a bond I had never remotely suspected, they looked at me again. The look proclaimed a defiant pride.

'Oh,' I said, demolished. After a moment, I said, 'Forgive me. When you declined, I should not have persisted.'

Tlatli said, 'We do not mind your knowing, Mole, but we would not care to have it common gossip.'

I tried again. 'Then would it not be to your advantage for one of you to make a marriage? I mean simply go through the motions of the ceremony. Afterwards...'

'I could not,' said Chimali with quiet obstinacy, 'and I would not let Tlatli. It would be a weakness, a sullying of what we feel for each other. Look at it this way, Mole. Suppose someone asked you to marry one of us.'

'Well, that would be contrary to all law and custom, and scandalous. But it would be just the opposite if one of you took Tzitzi to wife. Only in name, Chimali, and later—'

'No,' he said, and then added, perhaps sincerely, 'We are sorry, Mole.'

'So am I,' I sighed as I turned and left.

But I determined that I would come back to them and press my proposal. I had to convince one of them that it would be to the benefit of us all. It would deliver my sister from danger, it would quell any possible conjectures about the relationship between Tlatli and Chimali, and about the relationship between Tzitzi and me. They could openly bring her with them when they came to Texcoco, and secretly bring her to me, for me. The more I thought about it, the more the plan seemed ideal for everybody concerned. Chimali and Tlatli could not continue to refuse the marriage on the selfish excuse that it would somehow tarnish their own love. I would persuade them—if necessary by the brutal threat of exposing them as cuilontin. Yes, I would come back to Tlatli and Chimali.

But as things turned out, I did not. It was already too late.

That night, again, Tzitzi did not come home.

In spite of everything, I slept, and I did not dream of vultures, but of Tzitzi and myself and the immense jar which held the household water supply and which bore Chimali's handprint in blood. In my dream, I was back at that time during the lifeless days when Tzitzi had sought an excuse for us to get out of the house together. She had overturned and broken the water jar. The water sluiced all about the floor, and splashed up as far as my face. I awoke in the night to find my face wet with tears.

The summons from the governor's palace came the next morning, and it was not, as one would expect, for the head of the house, my father Tepetzalan. The messenger announced that the Lords Red Heron and Joy requested the immediate presence of my mother. My father sat meek and silent, his head bowed, avoiding my eyes, the whole time we awaited her return.

When she came back, her face was pale and her hands were unsteady as they unwound the shawl from around her head and shoulders, but her manner was surprisingly inspirited. She was no longer the woman irate at having been deprived of a title, and she was not at all the bereaved mother. She told us, 'It seems we have lost a daughter, but we have not lost everything.'

'Lost her how?' I asked.

'Tzitzi never arrived at the palace,' said my mother, without looking at me. 'She slipped away from the temple women escorting her, and she ran away. Of course, poor Pactlitzin is nearly demented by the whole course of events. When the women reported her flight, he ordered a search of the entire island. A fowler reports his canoe missing. You remember'—she said to my father—'how your daughter once threatened to do just that. To steal an acali and flee to the mainland.'

'Yes,' he said dully.

'Well, it seems she has done so. There is no telling in which direction she went, so Pactli has reluctantly given up the search. He is as heartbroken as we are.' That was so patently a lie that my mother hurried on before I could speak. 'We must regard the departed Tzitzitlini as lost to us for good. She has fled as she said she would. Forever. It is no one's doing but her own. And she will not dare to show her face on Xaltocan again.'

I said, 'I do not believe any of this.' But she ignored me and went on, addressing my father:

'Like Pactli, the governor shares our grief, but he does not hold us to blame for the misbehavior of our wayward daughter. He said to me: 'I have always respected Head Nodder.' And he said to me: 'I would like to do something to assuage his disillusions and bereavement.' And he said to me: 'Do you suppose Head Nodder would accept a promotion to become Chief Quarrier in charge of all the quarries?'

My father's bowed head jerked up, and he exclaimed, 'What?'

'Those are the words Red Heron spoke. In charge of all the quarries of Xaltocan. He said: 'It cannot make up for the shame the man has suffered, but it may demonstrate my regard for him.' '

I said again, 'I do not believe any of this.' The Lord Red Heron had never before spoken of my father as Head Nodder, and I doubted that he even knew of Tepetzalan's nickname.

Still ignoring my interjections, my mother said to my father, 'We have been unfortunate in our daughter, but we are fortunate in having such a tecutli. Any other might have banished us all. Consider—Red Heron's own son has been mocked and insulted by our own daughter—and he offers you this token of compassion.'

'Chief Quarrier...' my father mumbled, looking rather as if he had been hit on the head by one of his own quarry stones. 'I would be the youngest ever—'

'Will you accept it?' my mother asked.

My father stammered, 'Why—why—it is small recompense for losing a loved daughter, however errant she...'

'Will you accept it?' my mother repeated, more sharply.

'It is a hand extended in friendship,' my father maundered on. 'To refuse that—after my lord has once been insulted—it would be another insult, and even more—'

'Will you accept it?'

'Why—yes. I must. I will accept it. I could not do otherwise. Could I?'

'There!' said my mother, much pleased. She dusted her hands together as if she had just completed some