THE day of firing was upon them. The potters prayed and held vigil as they waited for the fire to die down to ash. And when Hoshi’tiwa’s jar emerged, gently golden like a sunrise, its painted design like a blazing red sunset, everyone exclaimed it was the most beautiful rain jar ever created.
With great ceremony Hoshi’tiwa laid her jar with the others, but this time, while the rain-god priests praised Hoshi’tiwa’s rain jar, Moquihix stood in silent counsel, a strange look on his face that Hoshi’tiwa could not interpret.
Rain dances were performed continuously in the plaza, where sunlight blazed down from a cloudless sky. The people chanted and sacrificed their meager portions of corn to the gods while the high priests, surrounded by nobles and Jaguars, laid a sacrificial victim—a poor wretch destined for the sky-stone mines—over the stone altar, and offered his beating heart to the gods.
Dancing and ritual continued late into the night as a hundred torches were lit and blazed up to the clear, starry sky. And then Center Place grew quiet. People retired to their reed mats and small shelters, curling up beneath a sky that was too clear and too empty of clouds. Tomorrow was the Summer Solstice, a day that was longer than the night, harbinger of weather too hot. Extremes. Nature out of balance. While the corn thirsted in the fields.
In the hour before dawn of the Summer Solstice, Hoshi’tiwa dreamed of Ahoté—his body not broken by the priests of Center Place but whole again, and a man. She saw him follow the dusty road to the protected canyon where their settlement had stood for generations, saw her mother look up in joyous surprise, and Ahoté’s father, and all the uncles and aunts running to him, embracing him and laughing and giving him food and water and drawing him excitedly to the hearth to hear stories of Hoshi’tiwa and Center Place. It was such a heartwarming scene that, in her sleep, Hoshi’tiwa wept. Tears poured from her eyes and dampened her cheeks. Tears rolled onto her reed mat and soaked it. So many tears that even her clothes became wet so that when she awoke suddenly, it took her a moment to realize that it was not she who was crying but the sky, for the stars could no longer be seen behind dense storm clouds as a torrential rain poured down onto Center Place.
She jumped up and ran with the others, with all the people of Center Place, to cram into the plaza and laugh and dance and sing, holding their arms up to the downpour, tilting their faces up with open mouths to drink the blessed water. Across the plain, people placed jars and bowls and waterproof baskets beneath the rain, they waded into the narrow stream that was now running swiftly and growing wider, they stripped off their clothing and pranced beneath the deluge.
In his private chambers deep inside Precious Green, Jakál still slumbered. In his dream, Quetzalcoatl appeared before him, a tall pale-skinned man with a beard and wearing dazzling white robes. Jakál was so overjoyed, in his dream, to see his god in his earthly reincarnation, that he ignored the shouts of people all around him. “What are you saying?” he cried to his god, because Quetzalcoatl’s mouth was open, his lips moved yet Jakál could not hear him for the noise all about him. “Silence!” he shouted, knowing that Quetzalcoatl was bringing an important message and Jakál did not want to miss it. But the noise grew, the shouting rose until, in his frustration, Jakál snapped open his eyes and realized in sharp disappointment it had only been a dream.
But then he realized that the shouting was not a dream. Precious Green thundered with the voices of people raised in joy and excitement.
Hastily dressing, Lord Jakál strode into the plaza and held out his arms, his magnificent feathered headdress running with rain, his feathered cloak glistening. Torches sputtered and winked out so that there was little light, but everyone saw the figure of their Lord, his gold armbands glinting through the downpour. He began to chant, and other voices joined him until all the throats in Center Place, thousands of throats, joined to create one thundering voice in thanks to the gods for bringing rain.
As Hoshi’tiwa was embracing Yani and her sister potters, a Jaguar materialized in the downpour, his face paint running, his cat skins drenched. He took her by the arm and forced her through the crowd, people stepping away to make room, ogling the girl being dragged by a Jaguar, and then resuming their dancing and merrymaking.
To her surprise, he took her straight to the main doorway of Precious Green, the entrance that only Lord Jakál used, pushed her inside, and then turned to face the plaza and stand guard.
After her eyes adjusted to the light from torches that burned in sconces, she saw Lord Jakál sitting on a magnificent chair of ornately carved and painted wood. His headdress and feathered cloak had been removed so that he wore only a loincloth of scarlet cotton lavishly embroidered in gold thread. His bronze chest, still wet from the rain, was festooned with necklaces of silver, gold, and sky-stone. Two slaves attended to his long hair, combing it out dry, draping it over his shoulders and down his back.
“There you are!” he cried, jumping to his feet and startling the slaves. “You brought rain!”
“So did my sisters in the Potters’ Guild, and the priests who chanted for rain, and the rain-dancers, and all the people who prayed, my Lord.”
He laughed. “I will never understand the People of the Sun, who abhor boasting and believe that all people are equal! In Tollan we praise the gifted artisan and raise him, or her, above all others. In Tollan, smart and successful citizens are richly rewarded and all the rest are but dust beneath our feet.”
She barely heard the rain beyond the door, her heart pounded so. Had he forgotten their showdown two weeks prior, when her victory had meant his defeat? When he had struck her with such force, he had split open her chin?
The slaves left, and Hoshi’tiwa was alone with Lord Jakál in a chamber she had never seen before. Here was the heart of the government of Center Place, where the tlatoani received distinguished visitors and met with high priests, held counsel with his nobles. Woven tapestries hung on the walls; colorful reed mats covered the stone floor.
“You may choose your reward for bringing rain,” he said with a smile. Lifting a torch from a sconce, Jakál beckoned her to follow.
Hoshi’tiwa was familiar with the plan of the lower tier of the stone complex, but Jakál led her to a stairway, and as they climbed, she wondered where they were going.
The way was reached by narrow tunnels with steps so that they no longer heard the rain or the chanting of the populace. She had a hard time keeping up, Jakál was so energetic in his climb, taking the steps two at a time and laughing as they ascended. She followed him upward and upward, and she realized in that moment that she would follow him anywhere.
The outdoor terrace of the fifth level was where middle-status servants lived, but the inner rooms were closed off and forbidden for any but the Lord to enter. They emerged briefly into the open, and Hoshi’tiwa gasped at the sight of rain-swept Center Place below, the people happily bathing and drinking and playing in pools of water, dancing in the downpour while the priests chanted nonstop to the gods. “This way!” Jakál said, and led her into the first of several chambers, each more splendid than the last, inviting her to choose her reward.
The first was the House of Feathers, where one wall was decorated with feathers of a brilliant yellow, another with radiant and sparkling hues of blue, woven into tapestries and placed against the walls in graceful hangings and festoons. The remaining walls were hung with feathers of brilliant reds, and plumage of the purest and most dazzling white.
Next came the sky-stone storage chamber, filled from floor to ceiling with the gemstone in every color, every shape, and every form it came in, raw, shaped, polished, some chunks as big as a man’s fist.
And then the Gold Room, and the Silver Room, until finally Jakál took her up to the roof of the fifth level, where a willow-branch overhang kept the rain off them as he showed her the aviary, a giant cage of willow and birch, housing a collection of the most fantastic birds Hoshi’tiwa had ever seen.
“Make your choice,” he said magnanimously, holding his arms out as if offering her the world. “She who brings rain shall have any treasure she wishes.”
Hoshi’tiwa could only stare at him. The smile, the energy—as if he could flap his arms and swoop up into the sky. It was infectious. She felt herself start to laugh.
And then suddenly he was somber. “I did that,” he said softly, and she felt his fingertip touch her chin. Though the wound had healed leaving only a small scar, his touch felt like a bolt of lightning. “I do not know why I struck you.” His thick brows met in a frown, as if the incident he was recalling had taken place many years ago, and the details eluded him.
But Hoshi’tiwa did not want to talk about that day. It almost seemed as if the confrontation and the outcome of victory for one and defeat for the other had happened to two other people. She looked at the birds in the cage and said, “They remind me.”
Jakál’s eyes were as stormy as the night as he, too, brought himself back from the debacle of two weeks prior, when he had thought he had lost his power altogether. But now, the rain restored it. Hoshi’tiwa had restored it. “They remind you of what?”
“The young women who assist you in the ritual in the glade. They are so beautiful. I am a sparrow in comparison.”
“But the sparrow is the hardiest of winged creatures. They live in snow and heat and rain, in drought and famine. The sparrow is strong and determined and a survivor. These birds,” he gestured toward the exotic creatures on their perches, feathered in all the colors of the rainbow, “for all their beauty and plumage, are delicate and would perish were it not for our careful guardianship of them.”
He paused and looked at her, and said, “But you are not plain, though you compare yourself to a sparrow. And remember, the sparrow is a songbird, delighting us with her presence.”
The rain fell all around them, creating a wall between themselves and the outer world, so that this inner world, dry beneath an arbor, was the only one that existed. Jakál stood close to Hoshi’tiwa. She could see the details of the prince whom she had once hated and called “monster”—the tiny scars on his body, damp strands of black hair, the collarbone still glistening with raindrops.
And Jakál could not take his eyes off this girl who called herself a sparrow yet who possessed miraculous hands and the magic to create gold out of clay.
And he thought: She brought rain! Now Quetzalcoatl will surely come to Center Place. Jakál’s joy became so complete that he thought he could fly up to the sky and ride the rain clouds like a god himself.
Impassioned by a need to reward her in this special moment, he lifted a small gold medallion from among the necklaces festooning his chest. “This flower,” he said, “which is xochitl in my native tongue, was given to one of my ancestors by Quetzalcoatl himself. It contains a drop of the god’s blood.” He laid it in the palm of her hand, where he had once painted the symbol for water.
Hoshi’tiwa marveled at the exquisitely crafted blossom, with six perfect petals of gold and a bead of striking blue sky-stone in the center. Behind the bead, Jakál said, was a small compartment where the drop of sacred blood was contained.
“This is too precious,” she whispered, holding it out. “I cannot accept.”
“But you must!” he cried, and he suddenly, impulsively, pulled her to him and pressed his lips to hers.
A jolt shot through her. A cry filled her throat.
Stunned, Jakál stepped back and stared down at her, a look of confusion on his face.
“My Lord,” she whispered, touching her lips with trembling fingers.
The rain picked up, the wind blew sharply, as if nature had been excited by the impulsive, forbidden kiss.
Feeling as if she had been struck by lightning, Hoshi’tiwa held out the golden xochitl and dropped it into his palm. Jakál restored the precious amulet among his necklaces, rearranging the strands and strings in an effort to compose himself—what had he just done?
Hoshi’tiwa said, “My Lord—” The brief, intimate contact had thrown her off balance. She needed to set the moment straight. Words were needed. Any words. The feel of his lips upon hers … “May I ask a question?”
He looked at her with shadowed eyes, a furrow between his brows. He looked at her mouth, and then away.
“My Lord, why did you let Ahoté go? You did not need to consult the gods.”
“It was for the good of the people,” he said quietly, while his mind shouted: Why did I kiss her? “I released the boy to bring rain.” Because of the dark day and curtain of rain, Hoshi’tiwa did not see the yearning in his eyes, did not know the confusion in his heart as he wondered once more at a love so strong that a mere girl had been willing to sacrifice her own life for that of the son of corn farmers.
He thought of his wife, a highborn lady chosen by his family to be his consort and who had died in childbirth but who left him no legacy of love or grief. Jakál could not recall a time when his heart had been moved by another. He certainly could not think of anyone for whom he would sacrifice his life.
He stepped closer and, placing his hands on her shoulders, said solemnly, “It is no accident that you came here. The gods are at work, guiding you.”
Her heart rose in her throat as she feared—hoped—he might press his mouth to hers again. “I am just a humble potter, my Lord. The gods are barely aware of my existence.”
But Jakál’s grip on her shoulders tightened and he said with passion, “You are an enigma to me, Hoshi’tiwa. I have thought about you every day since you were brought to Center Place. On the surface, you are the daughter of a corn farmer, but with hands and skills that surely came from the gods. Your golden jars are the most beautiful I have ever seen, surpassing even those made in my city of Tollan, and they are considered to be the most beautiful in the world.”
He took her hands. “What a miracle these are,” he whispered.
She could barely speak, his touch and nearness petrified her so. And what she asked next startled her, yet hearing the words she realized it was a question that had been in her heart for months. And now she needed to know the answer. She needed to know because of him. “Why do Toltecs kill people and eat them?”
He gave her a surprised look. “It is in the natural order of things. The mountain lion eats the antelope, does she not?”
“But I do not think mountain lion eats mountain lion.”
This gave him pause and she realized that he did not think of her people as beings like himself, as equal to himself, but inferior, as the antelope was to the mountain lion.
He could not understand why she found the practice repugnant. It was something his people had always done. “It is what the gods demand. They ask for blood. It makes them strong.”
“My gods ask for corn.”
It was on his tongue to tell her that her gods were weak, but then he remembered how she had defeated him in the plaza when she forced him to resort to a magic trick in order to save face, although she did not know about the trick. He wondered now if her gods had had a hand in his decision that day. And if they were spinning a spell around him and the girl now, as they stood beneath the rain-soaked arbor, alone in the world with only their two bodies, two hearts.
He looked into eyes that reminded him of polished stones in a running stream, leaf-shaped eyes that made him think of the mountain forests back home, and he realized that she was beautiful. Not like the ladies of Tollan, exquisite creatures who were pampered and spoiled. This girl made him think of cornfields and ripe soil and the life-giving rain that was falling just then on Center Place.
His heart moved in a way it never had before. And his loins stirred with feelings he had thought died long ago. And then he remembered the wide gulf between them, a chasm too wide to be bridged. They were from two races, spoke two different tongues, worshipped different gods and followed different customs—he was a prince and she made pottery! And now she belonged to the gods so that she was unreachable even for the tlatoani of Center Place.
Reluctantly, he released her hands and took a step back. “Choose,” he said in a voice as soft as the whispering rain. “From any of what I have shown you, as my reward to you.”
She beheld him against the stormy backdrop, the power of nature complementing the power of the man—or so it seemed to Hoshi’tiwa, who was speechless in the presence of such force. Jakál made her heart rise in her throat, the breath struggle in her lungs, the pulse throb in her veins. Her emotions confused her. When his dark eyes remained on her, she felt her spirit leave her body and soar to the sky.
“I want to go home,” she said.
Rain and wind lashed around them, lifting Jakál’s long hair like the black banners on the Jaguars’ spears. She thought she saw anger in his expression. She did not know that his own heart suddenly thumped fearfully at the thought of losing her, that he realized just then what he had not known before, that he would gladly give her all he had shown her—the feathers and sky-stones and precious birds—if she would stay.
But freedom was the one thing he could not give her, because she now belonged to the gods. And then a strange thought came to him: Just as leadership had been thrust upon him, so had the responsibility of bringing rain to Center Place been thrust upon this girl. She had been brought here against her will, as had he. So alike were they in that moment.
And this terrified him most of all.
“I cannot let you go,” he said, and Hoshi’tiwa was not surprised. Nor was she disappointed. It was the answer she had expected. “Then let me return to the potters’ workshop and live with my sisters.”
His eyes flickered, and for an instant, Hoshi’tiwa thought she saw a hurt look in his eyes. But surely she had imagined it. And then, without a word, he turned on his heel to lead the way back down.
Hoshi’tiwa followed. Was he going to let her go back to the workshop? But of course! He had offered her “any reward” for bringing rain. She couldn’t wait to tell Yani the good news.
In the downstairs chamber, servants brought mugs of a hot brew made from beans grown in the jungles far to the south, a brew that was thick and brown and bitter, and which Hoshi’tiwa did not care for. Jakál called it chocolatl.
But he did not drink with her. He had duties, he said, with the priests of Tlaloc, but said that she could remain in the shelter of this warm chamber.
While she sat and drank, and listened to the rain beyond the walls, she tried to sort the jumble of emotions, like a weaver sorting yarn in preparation for making a blanket. But her thoughts and feelings were a tangled mess. They left her exhausted until she fell asleep on a reed mat. When she awoke later, she found herself covered in a rich feather blanket.
Lord Jakál was nowhere about.
Creeping through the warren of rooms, she emerged onto the plaza in eager anticipation of a wet cloudy day, and could not believe her eyes: The sun was blinding and there was not a cloud in sight. The ground was dry, as if the earth had been so parched, it gulped down all the rain and left none for the people. Even the stream running through the canyon was slow and narrow again. The only rain that had been saved was in the vessels that had been placed all around, but with the day growing warm, the precious water was beginning to evaporate so that people ran about collecting the vessels and carrying them indoors.
Lord Jakál stood in the plaza, a furious look on his face. Hoshi’tiwa went to his side.
“Collect your possessions from the kitchen,” he said without looking at her, and then he strode away.
Even though the rain had been brief, it was rain all the same, and the women and girls of the Potters’ Guild were celebrating a victory when Hoshi’tiwa arrived with her small bundle of possessions.
They greeted her with open arms and warm embraces, happy to have their sister back in their midst. Hoshi’tiwa, her eyes shining with joy, went straight to Yani and said, “You were right, dear friend. My destiny is here at Center Place. Although I am not the girl prophesied on the ancient wall, I was brought here for a reason. To bring rain.” Myriad emotions swirled in Hoshi’tiwa’s mind and heart—Lord Jakál and the feel of his lips upon hers—but she would sort them later, when the others were asleep and she was alone with her thoughts. For now, she was home. “I am here to stay,” she said.
Yani could barely suppress her joy. The rain was the sign she had been waiting for. When Hoshi’tiwa had stepped up onto the plaza and confronted Lord Jakál—successfully winning Ahoté’s freedom—Yani knew that was the test of courage and honor Hoshi’tiwa must pass. And now the gods had revealed their pleasure, by sending rain.
Tomorrow Yani was going to take Hoshi’tiwa to the secret cave and introduce her into the kachina cult.
Runners came back from the mesa lookout points to report no clouds from horizon to horizon. The rain had been but a brief squall. When Jakál finally retreated inside, Moquihix joined him with a dour look on his face.
“Last night,” the High Minister said, “I saw a coyotl in the downpour. The trickster god was laughing. Coyotl played a joke on us.”
Jakál lashed out at him, startling him. “You mock the gods, Moquihix. The girl brought rain.”
“But my Lord—”
“Not another word!” Jakál bellowed. “The Cloud Spirits listened to her. You will not speak of Coyotl or tricks.”
Jakál clapped his hands and servants came running. In a bellowing voice, their master called for an emergency meeting of the Council. “Now, my Lord?” said Moquihix. The Council never met until Star Readers and astrologers chose an auspicious day.
“At once!”
The nobles and officials arrived in haste, accompanied by the Jaguars who had been sent to fetch them, and as they lined up in their places in the great Council Chamber, they asked one another what this was about. The filthy Star Readers were also there, as well as priests from as far away as Lady Corn.
Jakál entered the hall and all fell silent. He wore his feathered cape and quetzal headdress of office, and walked with purpose, his lean frame drawn up tall and straight. Jakál strode back and forth in front of the gathered company, stretching the silence, creating tension and anticipation as the men shifted on their feet and avoided his gaze as if he could read their thoughts. Jakál had been trained, in the great temple of Quetzalcoatl in Tollan, the tricks and techniques for reducing the most stubborn and fearless of men into a state of nerves.
Finally, sensing the rising anxiety in the chamber, he snapped at a pair of guards, “Bring the girl.”
A bewildered Hoshi’tiwa was thrust before the Council by the rough handling of a Jaguar, having been snatched from the homecoming party at the workshop. She did not know why she was here, now facing this august body.
The gathered men knew of the plan to execute her after she brought rain. Was the deed to take place here?
Captain Xikli, standing at the head of the two rows of nobles, smiled to himself. The rain had been brief, and he, too, had heard of a coyotl in the downpour, the earthly manifestation of the trickster god. He took it as a sign that Jakál’s power would also be brief, and that the gods were playing tricks on him.
Moquihix, however, suspected that something else was afoot.
All waited in respectful and nervous silence as Lord Jakál proceeded to declare a new law that, by his mere speaking it, had to be obeyed beyond question. As his scribes hastily recorded his words, the tlatoani of Center Place informed all in the council hall that the rain-girl Hoshi’tiwa was from this day forward tiacápan.
A collective gasp filled the hall. The men looked at one another. Had they heard correctly? So rarely was the distinction of tiacápan placed upon someone—”first born, favored of the gods.” Did Jakál have that power?
The Chief Star Reader stepped forward and said in a respectful tone, “By what right do you do this, my Lord?”
“By my right as the messenger of Quetzalcoatl, whose will is not to be ignored.” Jakál had thought about the dream he had been enjoying when the rain arrived, analyzed it, consulted with a dream interpreter until he had convinced himself that what Quetzalcoatl was trying to tell him in the dream, and which Jakál could not hear above the shouting, was that Hoshi’tiwa was to be awarded an elevated status at Center Place and that she was untouchable to all men.
The Council members, officials and Jaguars, High Minister Moquihix, Captain Xikli, and Chief Physician Nagual listened in shocked silence. One of the scribes was so stunned, he forgot to keep writing. And Jakál’s personal bodyguard, standing nearby, carefully memorized every word his master spoke so that he could later repeat it verbatim to Lady White Orchid.
Because Jakál spoke in Nahuatl, Hoshi’tiwa did not understand what was being said. But the reactions of the nobles and officials, the shocked faces and low angry voices frightened her, and she knew that her fate was being decided in that moment.
“Let every man from horizon to horizon know that the girl will no longer be known as Hoshi’tiwa. From this day forward she is Summer Rain,” Jakál said in a ringing voice, and more gasps erupted throughout the chamber. “She will take up residence in Precious Green, to live as a Toltec, in chambers of her own, with servants of her own. She will be allowed to wear cotton and sandals. And all are to show her proper respect as one blessed by Tlaloc and a messenger of the gods.”
Jakál swept his fierce gaze over the faces of those present, taking in their awe, confusion, stupefaction, searching for signs of disobedience or dissent. Finally, his eyes met those of Captain Xikli, who stood in a defiant pose. Jakál’s eyes were like blazing firebrands as he shouted in a sonorous voice filled with authority and finality, “Quetzalcoatl has spoken!”