THE day of the full moon approached—the Day of Leaving.
The cremations and burials for those who had perished in the riot (with the exception of the traitor Xikli, whose corpse still hung on the plaza wall, although no longer recognizable as ravens had picked the bones clean) were done, and now the two peoples prepared for the exodus from Center Place: one group to follow Hoshi’tiwa north, the other to go with Moquihix south.
When Hoshi’tiwa had stood on the rim of the Star Chamber and watched Jakál disappear into the flames, the feathered cloak catching fire, the quetzal plumes igniting and flaring, the golden mask melting, she had stood immobilized for only an instant, and then she had flung herself forward to follow her beloved into the inferno. But two powerful arms had seized her and pulled her back.
“He did it for you!” Moquihix had cried above the roar of the fire. “Do not make his sacrifice an empty gesture.”
Sobbing, shocked with disbelief, she had turned and looked into the solemn face of her former enemy. “You knew he was going to do this!”
“I did not. I would have advised him against it.”
“But did he have to kill himself?”
“He had to throw himself into the fire because otherwise he was simply a man dressed as a god. This way, the Toltecs were convinced he was the god, and so they will leave. But now the gods will also leave Center Place. The world here has come to an end. I will take my people home. And you must lead yours to a new home.”
Heaving with sobs—He did this for me, for my people—Hoshi’tiwa had then turned to face the thousands who stood in stunned silence so that the only sound on the wind was the crackling of flames and a lone hawk crying overhead. Their hollow faces and ragged clothing pierced her heart. And the lost look in their eyes—they were like children. They had no direction, no leadership.
Lifting her eyes to the hawk that soared on air currents, Hoshi’tiwa had seen the clear blue sky with not a cloud from horizon to horizon, the treeless landscape and the barren riverbed cutting through the canyon, and she had known that what Moquihix said was true. The gods were no longer here. And where there were no gods, humankind must not dwell.
Lifting her arms, although her heart was breaking and she wanted to weep for Jakál, Hoshi’tiwa had cried out in a commanding voice, “My brothers and sisters, it is time for us to leave. Center Place is makai-yó. We must find new homes in the north and the west. You are free to go south with the Toltecs if that is your wish. But do not go eastward, for inhospitable tribes dwell there.”
She did not know where her courage came from, or how she was going to take responsibility for so many people, but the vision that had blinded her in the plaza, when she had seen the People of the Sun thriving in peace and balance and harmony, infused her with new vigor and decisiveness.
“On the first day of the full moon, we shall depart,” she said. “Take with you all that you have, collect food and water where you can find it. At noon on the first day of the full moon, we shall walk northward and southward from this valley, and we will not look back. We will never speak of this place again.”
Her voice broke. The silence held. Hoshi’tiwa had seen that the Jaguars did not retrieve their weapons. And she had known then that the holy war was over, the world of master and slave was at an end. Jakál had known his charade as Quetzalcoatl would have this effect, that the Jaguars would obey his command and allow her people to leave. He had known that his own self-sacrifice was the only way to save the People of the Sun, and so she said to them, mustering breath and voice though she was on the verge of weeping, “Lord Jakál came to us as the great god Quetzalcoatl and sacrificed himself to set us free. Therefore we will let the Toltecs go in peace. We are no longer enemies.”
Hoshi’tiwa spent the afternoon and evening in prayer, staying by the walls of the charred kiva that contained the remains of her beloved Jakál. She had spoken to his spirit, prayed to his god, and then, wishing she could stay there forever to grieve and mourn, but knowing that her people needed her, she had turned her back on the symbol of human strife and self-sacrifice and proceeded among her people to ready them for the great trek northward.
It was not an easy task. Many had been born at Center Place, as had their parents; some were the descendants of those who had lived in the valley before the Toltecs came, and these were the hardest to persuade to leave. But Hoshi’tiwa kept at it, undaunted, tireless, following her new vision. She spoke with authority to each family, assuring them that though they had lived here for generations, it was no longer good luck. And they believed her. Had she not had the vision to gather up all those scattered refugees and bring them home? Therefore, they would follow her to a new destiny.
But families were torn. Brothers wanted to go different ways, women wished to follow Toltec men with whom they had fallen in love, Toltec women sought a more peaceful life among the People of the Sun, and everyone argued about gods and which was supreme and who should inherit the family grinding stone or the buffalo hide blanket or the children. Many cooperated as well and came together to pool resources and promise to look out for one another on the journey north, for they would be in strange lands and encounter foreign people and gods.
As she walked from hut to hut, camp to camp, alone on the dusty paths through dawn, noon, and sunset, Hoshi’tiwa spoke silently to Jakál. She thanked him for setting her people free. And she promised him she would love him all the days of her life.
Gradually, under her persuasion, a massive breakdown of camps and shelters took place and people divided up and shared their goods, deciding whom to go with and where.
Hoshi’tiwa went to Precious Green and requested a visit with Chief Physician Nagual, whose assistants were stripping his apartments of his implements of divination and diagnosis, healing herbs and ointments, magic amulets and charms, and books containing healing spells and incantations. Thanking the physician for the small kachina spirit, she handed it back, but Nagual asked her to keep the little wooden figurine, saying, “He is the spirit of ponds, lakes, and rivers. He will help you on the journey.”
In wonder, for she remembered her ordeal at Big River, Hoshi’tiwa said, “He has already helped me. Therefore I will keep the spirit safe and honor him.” She paused and the cryptic, hooded eyes watched her. Finally, Nagual said, “Yani is dead. But it was a peaceful passing and she spoke your name with love.”
In the twelve rising-splendors, priests, officials, and residents gathered up all that they owned, arguing and agreeing over what belonged to whom, who was responsible for this god or that, squabbling over whose burden was lighter or heavier. At Precious Green, Moquihix climbed to the top tier and opened the cage that housed the exotic birds, setting them free. It had been Jakál’s last command.
When Jakál had returned to his chambers with the priestly robes and scepter, he saw that Hoshi’tiwa had already walked out onto the plaza to stop the sacrifice. He was too late. Chaos had erupted. Pandemonium filled the valley. And Jakál had known then the only recourse left.
Before donning his Quetzalcoatl costume and making his way to the Star Chamber for his dramatic emergence from the subterranean corridor, he had sent slaves to search for Moquihix and bring him back. “My friend,” Jakál had said as he hurriedly dressed, “our empire is no more. We are without King, city, people. Return to our land in the south and find what remnants of our scattered race you can. Take all the sky-stone and feathers, all the wealth we have accumulated here. And lastly, my friend, release the caged birds. Perhaps they will fly south with you.”
“Are you not coming with us?” Moquihix had asked in alarm.
Jakál had smiled, laid a hand on his friend’s shoulder, and said, “I walk another path.”
That path had been one of flames, and with Jakál’s death Moquihix had felt a loss as keen as that of his loss for Xikli. Jakál had symbolized home. Jakál was Tollan and the Toltec empire.
With a heavy heart, having lost son, friend, and empire, Moquihix had overseen the packing up of all the sky-stone and feathers, salt and silver that would be borne on the backs of a hundred slaves to form a final caravan home, and now, after watching the parrots fly skyward in flashes of brilliant color, he paused to look across the canyon where the charred ruins of the Star Chamber smoldered. He thought of the girl who had caused this ending to happen. Daughter of the Sun, a commoner, born to a corn grower. Yet he, noble Moquihix, shared one thing with her: their deep love for Jakál.
Climbing down to the plaza, for it was time to join his people who were gathered, in an irony not lost to him, near the sacred Sun Dagger to begin the journey southward, Moquihix glanced northward, where a similar mass of humanity had gathered just beyond the now-deserted Five Flower, ready to begin their journey.
Many had dismantled their wooden shelters and bore the sticks and poles upon their backs, for who knew what building materials they would find in the new land? Everyone carried something; even small children had the responsibility of holding on to gourds and bowls and light sacks of grain. Babies were strapped to mothers, and the elderly and infirm who could not walk were tied to the backs of strong men.
White Orchid’s villa was not one of the houses that had been set afire in the riot, but it had been looted. As White Orchid wrapped her few remaining goods in a blanket, she wondered which way she should go: north or south.
Clasped in her hand was the pale pink stone, rounded and flat and sanded smooth, that she had worn all her life. Placed about her neck by—her mother? the stranger who brought her to Tenoch?—the amulet was incised with a symbol that White Orchid had not been able to decipher. Curling her fingers now around the talisman, she closed her eyes and silently asked: Which way should I go? Whom should I follow?
The People of the Sun.
Opening her eyes, she scanned the chaos that filled the valley, families uprooting, tearing down shelters, gathering goods and children together, and she saw through the haze of doused cook fires and dust kicked up by so many busy feet, the old herb peddler struggling outside her hut. Thinking of her unborn child, and that to travel with a healer and a midwife would be beneficial, White Orchid shouldered her bundle and struck off toward Pikami’s hut.
As Pikami carefully packed her precious herbs, roots, and seeds, she recalled another day when her life had taken as dramatic a turn as this. The day she had caused Rainbow Clan to vanish from the face of the earth.
Young Pikami had been the hope of Rainbow Clan. No one knew why bad luck afflicted them, but the clan had been shrinking, with members dying from injury or illness, women failing to bring babies to term. When Pikami finally became pregnant, and then delivered a healthy baby girl, all looked to her and her new child as the hope and future of their people.
The fateful day had been like any other. Pikami had gone down to the river to bathe. She had placed the infant in its basket on the river-bank, not too close to the water’s edge, and she had turned her back for a brief moment. But when she turned again to pick up her baby, it was gone.
She had been frantic. She examined the ground for paw prints. Had a mountain lion carried the infant off? Perhaps a wolf, a fox?
And then she saw them. Human footprints, larger than her own.
She had run, but the kidnapper had run faster. Pikami never caught him, never knew who had snatched her baby when her back was turned for just an instant. After that she could not bring more children to term, so that the clan one by one died out and she was the last of the Rainbow Clan. No one ever blamed Pikami, because babies were stolen, by thieves or animals, but Pikami never forgave herself.
Recalling that long-ago day, as she collected the herbs she would take on the long journey out of Center Place, Pikami hoped her daughter had not been killed, that she had been placed with a kind family, and that she had been protected all these years by the magic amulet Pikami had placed around her neck, fashioned of pale pink stone and inscribed with the symbol of the Rainbow Clan.
Hearing footsteps approach, she emerged from her hut and saw a Toltec noblewoman coming along the path. Lady White Orchid, widow of the late tlatoani. “May I travel with you?” the Lady asked. “We can help each other. I am strong and,” White Orchid laid a hand on her stomach, “I am with child.”
Pikami rubbed her neck, where the skin was wrinkled and sagged so loosely that lost in the folds was the tattoo of Rainbow Clan: two curved lines, like arches, suspended above five dots. She was happy to travel with a pregnant woman. Pikami loved babies, ever since she lost her own. It was why she had invited Yellow Feather and her newborn to live with her. Now another newborn would enter her life. “I will give you healthful herbs to help your baby,” she said, feeling a curious joy lift her old heart. “And when the times comes, I shall deliver you of your child.”
With the lame boy helping Pikami, they headed to the western end of the canyon, where a massive gathering of humanity was preparing to depart. “Will you be returning to your family, Old Mother?” White Orchid asked, because she had heard that the migration would be traveling to settlements in the north where people would find kinsmen.
“I have no family,” Pikami said. “Sadly, I am the last of Rainbow Clan. But you also do not return to a family. Your family is far to the south,” she said, wondering why the Lady chose to go north instead of south with her own people.
White Orchid said nothing as she relieved the old woman of one of her bundles. Who her family was, White Orchid had no idea. She had been afraid to show anyone the amulet around her neck for fear that, if it was not Toltec, how would she explain wearing it? And discreetly surveying facial tattoos in the marketplace, and even among her own servants, had produced no match. But now that she was traveling with the People of the Sun, she would perhaps have a chance to learn its significance. Not right away, but after a while, when she and the old woman had become familiar with each other—already, White Orchid was feeling a small sense of family as she walked with the old herb peddler and her lame grandson, three generations, and the promise of a fourth, bonding together as they walked toward the unknown—White Orchid would show Pikami the pink stone with its three lines arching above five dots, and maybe she would find her bloodline in a distant settlement at last.
As Moquihix emerged from Precious Green, to watch the exotic birds fly up and away into the sky, he saw hollow-eyed Yellow Feather sitting on the edge of the deserted plaza. She had placed her little boy on the funeral pyre of Copil the Superintendent of the Marketplace in the hope that Copil would take care of the little child-spirit in the afterlife.
Moquihix looked down at Yellow Feather and, as he recalled the first day she had come to his house and he had felt a stirring of life in his loins, now, too, he felt a stirring, not of lust but of his heart. He sympathized with her loss. He himself had lost an infant daughter years ago when she had been dropped by a careless servant.
He reached down and lifted Yellow Feather to her feet. She wordlessly fell into step at his side and, joining the group at the eastern end of the canyon, they began their long journey to the south.
Before taking her place at the head of her people, Hoshi’tiwa went one last time to Jakál’s chambers, where she found the rain jar. She would not take it with her but leave it there, believing it would comfort the lonely spirit of Jakál as it haunted Center Place. Removing the xochitl he had placed around her neck, the golden flower that contained a drop of Quetzalcoatl’s blood, she placed it inside the rain jar.
Finally, the once young and naive Hoshi’tiwa, now empowered by the spirit of suukya’qatsi, proceeded to lead her people out of Center Place. Behind her, Running Elk and Red Crow walked hand in hand. Among the vast throng that slowly wound its way along the ancient trail walked Nagual with his group of kachina supporters, carrying their sacred wooden spirits.
As they began their long walk, Hoshi’tiwa thought: Ahoté’s death was not in vain. Had he not come to Center Place, and then been taken to the mines, these people would not now be reunited with their loved ones. And so Ahoté was with her still. He was in her heart, and his spirit was in the bear claw and owl figurine she wore around her neck. And she would remember him for all the rest of her days.
As the Lords and priests and Jaguars started homeward, the unified clans of the People of the Sun followed the Tortoise Clan daughter northward toward their unknown future and destiny among the mesas in the West.