THE priestess did not at first see the ominous cloud approaching Center Place.
Bent over her labors on the mesa above Lady Corn, she was inspecting long strips of bark paper that had been left in the sun to dry, and when she straightened to look out over the plain that spread southward and eastward to distant mountains and canyons, she blinked in the noon sunlight. A great cloud of dust rose up from the desert. She rubbed her eyes and looked again. The cloud was following the ancient sky-stone trail.
A caravan!
She wrinkled her brow. No… not a caravan. An army? Not an army either. But definitely people—many people, dressed in different ways, men, women, and children, carrying burdens, with dogs loping alongside.
Hiking up her long skirt, the priestess flew down the stairway carved into the cliff, down to Lady Corn, where without ceremony, she cried, “Someone is coming! People! Many people!”
By the time the multitude entered the valley, the westering sun burnished cliffs and mesas in brilliant gold. Hoshi’tiwa was in the lead of the great mass of varied humanity, who looked this way and that in wonder at the rising-splendors, the farms, the many houses, shacks, and cook fires filling the canyon.
Not only the Invisible Ones walked with Hoshi’tiwa. Accompanying them were people Hoshi’tiwa had found in hiding when she had searched for other scraps and remnants of disrupted clans and families. Sitting with them in their camps and speaking to them as she had to the Invisible Ones, the message of reunification, and the promise of finding loved ones, she had convinced them to join the westward migration.
The Invisible Ones no longer wore the disguises that had allowed them to blend into nature. Gone were the twigs and dust and grass skirts that had made them invisible, and in their place were buckskins that had been stored away, fringed leggings not worn in years, agave-fiber tunics and skirts, and with faces washed, the clan tattoos were visible once again: Snake, Wolf, Cloud, and Sweet Water. From infants to the elderly, people with red skin and copper skin, speaking different dialects, sporting the many tattoos of their clans, and bearing upon their shoulders their worldly goods, they followed the Tortoise Clan daughter.
As they passed through fields, farmers straightened from their toil, wives emerged from huts, children ceased their play. And as they stared at the new arrivals walking past, some saw familiar faces, or recognized clan tattoos. Digging sticks and tortillas were forgotten as men and women ran to the crowd to embrace long-remembered loved ones, aunt embracing niece, father embracing son. Laughter erupted, and tears, and exclamations of wonder.
The procession underwent changes as people splintered off, going to farms and shelters with newly discovered loved ones, while others, residents of Center Place, dropped what they were doing to join the crowd heading to the main plaza. One man, the elder of the Invisible Ones, saluted Hoshi’tiwa and struck off to the potters’ workshop, which she had pointed out to him.
He filled the open doorway of the workshop and called in a booming voice, “Where is the one called Red Crow?” He stepped inside, a man in buckskins and looking fierce. “Red Crow!” he shouted.
All heads turned to where she sat in the corner, coiling clay. Red Crow brought her head up, a look of surprise on her face.
Her eyes widened, then narrowed, then widened again. “Running Elk?” she whispered in disbelief. Quickly tracing a protective sign in the air, she said, “You are a ghost! I saw you slain!”
He stared down at her, his eyes wide with wonder. “Red Crow?”
She slowly rose to her feet and took a faltering step forward. “Are you real?”
“I was not slain,” he said, remembering the day many years ago when the Jaguar’s spear had felled him. But he had recovered from the wound only to discover he was the last of Snake Clan.
Until now.
They flew into each other’s arms and wept with joy.
Hoshi’tiwa proceeded to the plaza, where Jaguars were hastily mustering, and officials and priests were coming out to see what the commotion was.
When he saw the throng that was advancing toward the plaza, Mo-quihix sent a Jaguar back into Precious Green with a message for Xikli. Then he waited as the mass of newcomers came to a restless halt before the plaza. He watched in amazement as people embraced and laughed, wiped tears from their eyes, or searched anxiously this way and that. A strangely diverse mob, yet cohesive in a curious way.
He eyed the rain-girl at the head of the crowd. Her return, he knew, portended disaster.
A moment later the Jaguar returned to whisper something to Moqui-hix, who rapped his skull-topped staff on the paving stones and shouted for silence. “All show respect and obeisance to the Lord of Center Place!”
When Xikli strode out from Precious Green, wearing the official robes and feathered headdress of office, many in the mob fell to their knees. Others stood and stared. Hoshi’tiwa looked at the Jaguar Captain in confusion.
When Xikli said nothing, coming to a standstill at the edge of the plaza to look down at her, and the moment stretched until not a sound was heard up and down the canyon, Hoshi’tiwa finally called out, “Where is Lord Jakál? I demand to speak with Lord Jakál.”
“Don’t you know?” muttered a peasant at her side. “Jakál was killed by Xikli.”
Hoshi’tiwa gave the man a startled look.
“Clubbed to death before the eyes of all the people. Now Xikli is Lord of Center Place. And since then, many beating hearts of our people have been offered to the Toltec gods.”
Hoshi’tiwa stared up in shock at the former Jaguar Captain standing at the edge of the plaza, looking down at her with a triumphant look on his disfigured face. So it was true, she realized in fear. Xikli had finally realized his dream of attaining the throne.
What Hoshi’tiwa did not know, as she and her new adversary locked eyes in the late afternoon sunlight, was that Xikli’s ambitions did not end there. Once the throne of Center Place had become his, a new ambition had sprouted in Xikli’s heart: to found a new dynasty. No sons of his would call themselves the progeny of Moquihix, but rather would tell the world that they were the sons of the great Xikli, who had founded a new Toltec empire. His name would be carried down through the ages, people would speak his praises and he would be remembered, like the great princes who had lived generations ago and who were still honored. He had already taken possession of the foundation for Jakál’s pyramid and planned to build there a pyramid dedicated to Blue Hummingbird. Xikli had also commissioned sculptors to chisel his likeness in stone—something no tlatoani at Center Place had ever done—and he would place the taller-than-life statues of himself at the base of the pyramid steps.
He smiled with satisfaction over the mob of fresh humanity Hoshi’tiwa had delivered to him. Tomorrow, they would all be inducted into his slave workforce. After he had put the girl on public display in the plaza.
He shouted an order for her arrest.
Hoshi’tiwa was too stunned to move. But when Jaguars came toward her, she turned to the crowd and shouted, “Find your families! Go to your homes! Hurry!” and then the Jaguars dragged her away.