they’d banked the night before. Kneeling, she blew it back to life. Was it his imagination or did she look older today than she had in recent months? Her once black hair was now streaked with white. She didn’t smile very much anymore, and there were lines on her face. He knew that she missed his father. Chalco missed him, too. He wondered if they’d see him again.
Outside, the trumpets sounded one more time—wailing long and mournfully before they faded. Somewhere, in a nearby hut, a baby cried.
Yawning, Chalco got dressed. He passed his otterskin maxtli between his legs, and then cinched it around his waist. The two ends of the loincloth hanging down in the front and back were embellished with intricate designs of an eagle and a jaguar—the totems of his clan. He pulled a mantle of woven cloth over his left shoulder, and then slipped into his deerskin sandals. His feet had gotten bigger, and his toes felt cramped inside them. Soon, it would be time for a new pair. At five feet five inches, Chalco was considered tall for his people. His father often joked that perhaps he was really the son of the cannibal giants rumored to live in the Northern caves. But he also said that Chalco’s size was a blessing, especially when it came to work. His broad head and thick neck were good for carrying baskets, and his long, muscular arms and wide feet aided him both in the field and on the hunt. Chalco did not mind his size. He knew it gave him an advantage over the other boys. The only thing he did not like was his coarse, dark hair. Currently, the thick bangs hung over his almond-shaped eyes and got in his way. He had to constantly flip his hair away from his face. Despite the annoyance, Chalco was reluctant to cut it. He wanted a long, braided ponytail like many of the older men had. He’d noticed that women seemed to fancy them.
The fire’s glow filled the hut. The warmth felt good. Dressed for the day, Chalco turned to his little brother. He was still in bed, blinking, half-awake.
“Quintox, get up.”
The younger boy shook his head. “I am still tired, Chalco.”
“Did you not rest well?” Chalco knew that Quintox missed their father and uncles, and wondered if it was affecting his sleep.
“I had a strange dream.”
Chalco sat on the edge of the bed and patted his head. “What was it?”
“I shouldn’t say.” Quintox frowned. “It might be wrong to tell.”
“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.”
