Serpent and Storm (11 page)

“Who lives there?” asked Sky Knife with ill-disguised disgust.

Whiskers-of-Rat turned to regard the neighborhood they had passed. “Hard to say,” he said. “When people come into the city from other lands, they often end up in such neighborhoods at first. Sometimes they stay there, but usually they move on to better neighborhoods once they become established.”

“But why would they live like that?” asked Sky Knife.

Whiskers-of-Rat grinned and gave a bark of laughter. “I would have thought you would be tired of hearing it by now. But this
is
the center of the world—why wouldn't everyone want to live here no matter what?”

Whiskers-of-Rat took off down the street again, Sky Knife close behind. Sky Knife glanced back briefly, but the odiferous neighborhood was soon out of sight. Center of the world or not, Sky Knife couldn't understand leaving one's own community to live in such squalor.

Still, now that he thought about it, he wondered why the entire city wasn't like that. At Tikal, with only a few thousand people, there was no such problem. Most people lived on their
milpas
and those few who lived in the city were scribes, artisans, priests—people whose lives were important to the city, but who did not exactly exist in multitudes. Here, where a hundred thousand people lived, ate, and slept in close proximity, garbage and waste must be a big problem.

“What about these other neighborhoods?” asked Sky Knife. “Where is their garbage?”

“Most of it is taken away on a daily basis to a place outside the city,” said Whiskers-of-Rat. “Believe it or not, there's a great demand in some areas with poor soil for the city's waste. Also, there are
drains.
”

Whiskers-of-Rat's speech transcended Sky Knife's vocabulary. “What?” he asked in frustration. “What was that word?”

Whiskers-of-Rat waved his hands as if trying to pantomime a concept, then gave up. “You'll see in the home we go to.”

“How much farther is it?” asked Sky Knife. “I'm supposed to be at Cacao's house for the midday meal.”

Whiskers-of-Rat nodded. “No problem. You will be back. It will not seem as far when we return, you'll see. It seems farther when you don't know where you're going.”

Finally, the children playing in the street seemed more familiar than foreign. They were shorter and stockier than the Teotihuacano children, their noses pronounced, and their foreheads flat. Several of them were cross-eyed and beautiful. Sky Knife swallowed a lump in his throat. One day, Itzamna willing, he would have children like this. Mayan children.

“Here we are,” said Whiskers-of-Rat unnecessarily. He paused by the courtyard doorway.

“Good day, friends,” he called inside. Three of the children in the street rushed over and ran into the courtyard, shouting in Mayan about the visitors.

A Mayan man, shorter and stockier than Sky Knife, came to the doorway. His gaze passed over Whiskers-of-Rat, dismissing the tall, gaudily dressed Teotihuacano, and came to rest on Sky Knife.

“Lord!” he said and dropped to his knees. His wife, coming up behind him, looked confused for a moment until she, too, saw Sky Knife. She barked orders to her children and knelt, touching her forehead to the courtyard pavement. The children followed suit, although they bobbed back up right away to stare at Sky Knife with unabashed curiosity.

“Down, down,” ordered their father, motioning to them with one hand while keeping his head down. The children paid no attention—they had eyes only for Sky Knife.

“Please, get up,” said Sky Knife. “Please,” he said again when no one moved.

Slowly, the man rose. His wife sat back but stayed on her knees. When her daughter tried to stand, she jerked the child back down.

“Lord, our house is too humble a dwelling for you to pollute your holiness by coming inside,” mumbled the man. “Please, I ask your forgiveness for its unworthiness.”

Sky Knife was at once thrilled to hear the Mayan tongue again, albeit with a coastal accent, and at the same time appalled to be the recipient of such unabashed adoration.

“Um, no forgiveness is, um, necessary,” Sky Knife said. He was aware of Whiskers-of-Rat's look of delight. “I would … uh, I would appreciate, ah…”

Sky Knife stopped, unsure how to continue. The family continued to look at him as if he were Itzamna himself. Sky Knife suddenly wasn't sure he wanted to visit them. If he wanted to speak his own language and relax with his own traditions and customs, perhaps waiting until he reached Tikal again was not a bad idea. Although Sky Knife had to deal with worshipful citizens in Tikal, it had never been this bad before.

The man finally stood and bowed slightly. “It has been a long time since we left Altun Ha,” he said. “It seems we have offended you. We mean only to honor you, Lord.”

“I know,” said Sky Knife. “And I'm grateful you respect our customs and our gods. But, please, get up, all of you. I asked my guide to bring me here so I could be among my own people again.”

Reluctantly, the woman stood. Her children bounded up and leaped for Sky Knife, crowding around his knees. He knelt and hugged them eagerly, envying the couple their children, eager for the day the children he hugged would be his own.

“Children, no…” said the woman.

Sky Knife stood and gave the children a gentle nudge toward their mother. The fear on her face alarmed him. The husband, however, had a glint of humor in his eyes.

“My name is Tree Conch,” said the man. “This is my wife Corn Husk and our children. Please, come in. You and your guide are welcome in my house.”

Sky Knife grinned and entered the courtyard. Tree Conch motioned him and Whiskers-of-Rat toward some benches against the wall. Sky Knife sat gratefully. Whiskers-of-Rat sat on a bench by himself, apparently willing to wait out the visit while the others spoke in a language he didn't understand.

Tree Conch pulled up another bench. The low wooden benches were Mayan in style, but Sky Knife didn't recognize the wood they were made from.

“What brings you to our house, Lord?” asked Tree Conch. He seemed more at ease now than before. Sky Knife was relieved.

“The uh, the city is so big and strange, I asked my guide to show me some Mayans if there were any in the city. He brought me here.”

Corn Husk approached with large, shallow bowl filled with water. A cotton towel was draped over her shoulder.

“I see you've been through some of the more squalid neighborhoods,” said Tree Conch. “Out of necessity, we have adopted some of the local customs. Please, allow my wife to wash the filth from your feet.”

Sky Knife made no objection while Corn Husk removed his sandals. She placed Sky Knife's feet in the bowl and then dried them with the cotton towel. Although she was probably several years older than Sky Knife and her hair was touched with a hint of gray, Corn Husk was a beautiful woman. Her forehead was flattened to an ideal angle and her nose was large and aquiline. Her simple undyed cotton dress covered her from neck to mid-calf in modest Mayan style. She wore no jewelry except a single strand of painted wooden beads around her neck.

Corn Husk picked up Sky Knife's sandals, but made a face of disgust. She tossed them in a small trash heap in the corner of the courtyard, stood up and left.

Sky Knife looked down at his bare feet.

“She will bring you another pair, Lord,” said Tree Conch. He looked plain beside the beauty of his wife. His eyes were not the slightest bit crossed and his nose was small and crooked. Broad-shouldered and well-muscled, Tree Conch's body and rough hands showed the evidence of years of hard work in the fields. Sky Knife wanted to ask why a Mayan man would bring his family to a place like this, but he couldn't. He merely nodded and waited for Corn Husk to return.

The courtyard itself was plastered in white like the exterior of the buildings. The high outer walls sheltered one-story buildings built in the flat-roofed Teotihuacan style. Several entrances to small buildings in the compound were scattered around the courtyard. The children watched him from the street.

“There are forty-five of us here,” said Tree Conch, noting Sky Knife's gaze. “Thirty live in the compound next to this one, and the other fifteen live here. Most of them are out in the fields today, preparing for the spring planting. We are the only Mayan enclave in the city.”

“Are you all from Altun Ha?” asked Sky Knife.

“No,” said Tree Conch. “Just us. One man is from El Mirador. Most of the others are from Kaminaljuyu. We've been here for nine years but most have been here longer.”

Corn Husk returned, her stride hurried as if she had taken too long. She knelt in front of Sky Knife and held out a new pair of sandals.

“Thank you,” said Sky Knife. He slipped the sandals on while Corn Husk went to Whiskers-of-Rat and washed his feet. When finished, she took the bowl of water to a strange circular hole in the center of the courtyard and poured the water into it.

“There, you see?” asked Whiskers-of-Rat. “A
drain.
”

Sky Knife still didn't understand what it was. He gestured toward the hole. “What is that?” he asked Tree Conch.

“Your guide gave you the word,” said Tree Conch, “and I have no other to give you. None of us had ever seen one before. But it is a clay pipe that leads from here to the river. It takes away all our waste water. Every compound has at least one. It's really quite useful.”

Sky Knife stared at the hole while Corn Husk left with the empty bowl and towel. “It's remarkable,” he said.

Corn Husk returned with a tray, on which she had balanced three jars. She handed one to Sky Knife, the second to Whiskers-of-Rat, and the third to her husband. The heavy odor of
pulque
filled Sky Knife's nose.

“Thank you,” he said. Whiskers-of-Rat imitated him, though his accent was terrible. Sky Knife's respect for the guide went up a notch—Whiskers-of-Rat was a foreigner, but at least he had some manners.

“Do you speak Mayan at all?” he asked the guide. It seemed rude to be talking to the others if Whiskers-of-Rat could not understand.

“No, no. I speak five languages, but yours is not one of them. It takes a long time to learn another language and there is very little opportunity here to learn or practice your tongue. But it is no problem. Please, continue.” Whiskers-of-Rat leaned back against the wall of the courtyard.

“We speak some of his language,” said Tree Conch, “but not very much. Just enough to get by in the fields and the market. But the children know the local tongue—too well, I'm afraid.”

“How do you mean?” asked Sky Knife.

“Well, this city … it takes in foreigners,” said Tree Conch. “And in a few years, they're not foreign anymore. Or their children aren't. If we stay here, our children will grow up without knowing their own people's ways. They won't marry other Maya. They'll raise their children speaking the Teotihuacano language and worshipping the Masked One rather than Itzamna.”

“This is a big, bright place,” said Corn Husk. “There is no shame in being a foreigner as there might be at home. But only because the city takes its time. Sooner or later, you belong here and nowhere else. All your old gods and traditions get left behind.”

“Can't you go home?” asked Sky Knife.

Tree Conch glanced at his wife. She straightened her shoulders in a gesture of wounded pride but didn't glance back to her husband.

“We can't,” said Tree Conch. “Corn Husk was the daughter of the
Ah kin.
She was supposed to marry his rival's son and bring an end to the two families' bickering. Her son would have been the new high priest of Altun Ha.”

Corn Husk frowned. “But I wouldn't marry him. He was a lying, whimpering dog. He seduced a friend of mine, but renounced her when she became pregnant. She died for adultery, of course. But his father believed him when he said the child wasn't his.”

“She started to run away,” said Tree Conch, “but I saw her in the fields. At first, I thought she was a goddess, she was so beautiful.”

Corn Husk relaxed a little and smiled. “He was so kind. I went home with him and explained my plight. His parents wanted to take me back to my father, but Tree Conch wanted to help me. He stood up to my father and was exiled. I ran away with him and we came here.”

Sky Knife drank his pulque, impressed by the story. Most Mayan women wouldn't have had the courage to disobey their father in such a matter, no matter how just their argument. Nor would most farmers have left their
milpa
for a woman, no matter how high-born.

“Well, Lord,” said Tree Conch. He cleared his throat as if embarrassed. “Now you know all about us.” He looked at Sky Knife.

Sky Knife put down the empty jar. “My name is Sky Knife,” he said. “I'm the
Ah men
and
Ah kin
of Itzamna in Tikal.”

Renewed fear crossed Corn Husk's face. “We've told you the truth,” she said.

“I believe you,” said Sky Knife. He knew from personal experience that rank was no protection against evil men. “Do you really want to leave here?”

Tree Conch sat up straight, tense. “What do you mean? We can't go home.”

“True,” said Sky Knife. “But you could go to Tikal. Go there and tell our king, Storm Cloud, that I sent you to him. Tell him I asked you to settle in our city. And seek out my wife, Jade Flute. She will help you in my name.”

“I don't…” began Tree Conch. “But we're exiles. I mean, you … you'd want us in your city?”

“You and your children,” said Sky Knife. “Your children should know their own customs, their own people. And you shouldn't suffer for another's falsehood.”

Corn Husk knelt before Sky Knife and grabbed him around the knees. Tree Conch knelt by his wife and bowed to Sky Knife. “Lord, we can never repay such kindness,” he said. “You have given us back our lives.”