12

Teresa saw the boy blur as he moved. She thought she saw the flick of a tail and heard the rustle of fur through low-hanging branches. She knew the jaguar would soon be flying through the pine and scrub-brush forest, twisting around trees, humping up slopes, skidding down inclines. She strained to see into the shadows. He was gone. He was safe.

She turned back to where Plague stood before her. He was gone, too.

What happened? she asked the horse.

He disappeared, the horse answered.

The boy, you mean?

No, the shape-shifter. The old man.

“Plague,” Teresa said out loud.

She was not afraid of Plague. Her hard heart protected her. Plague could not harm her, but he could harm many others. The housekeeper seemed to be next to Teresa now, whispering in her ear. The housekeeper was no fool. Her family had kept themselves alive by serving the cruel Aztecs and then the cruel Spanish. They bowed to their masters, but they kept their eyes and ears open, watching and listening. The housekeeper had been smart and practical. She sized up the situation, explaining it to Teresa: Horse and Boy and Teresa had left the villages of sarampión behind, with Plague harrying and driving them as fast as they could go. This far north, people were not yet suffering from the most recent epidemic, not yet dying, not yet grieving. Of course, Plague had wanted to walk with Teresa and Boy into this new village below. Because Plague needed a human being at his side. He needed someone to bring the disease, the way the Spanish had brought it when they came to the New World.

Teresa saw again the hares running from bush to bush into the hunter’s hand. And she saw, too, that if they did what Plague wanted, he would leave them alone. She and Horse could go into the village with Plague, and then Plague would stay behind with the suffering and dying people. He would have what he wanted. She would be free of him. She remembered the song: Sarampión toca la puerta. Viruela dice: ¿Quién es? Y Escarlatina contesta: Aquí estamos los tres. Measles knocks at the door. Smallpox asks, Who’s there? And Scarlet Fever replies, All three of us are here!

She shook her head. She had walked with a healer. Men and women jumped up, saying they felt completely well. Even the man with an arrowhead in his chest had risen from his grass mat saying he felt strong and well, while his wife and children looked relieved. They celebrated with yellow tea, dancing under the river of stars, singing and laughing. Her father had looked on, smiling at his daughter. Whatever else he had been, her father had been a healer.

She had to find the boy. Teresa felt a small sense of victory. The boy was safe. And Plague was gone for the moment. His trick had failed.

Teresa examined the ground where the boy had been and soon saw what she was looking for. Paw prints. The front heel pads as wide as her hand, the toes in a curve, the claws retracted. Crouching, she began to follow the prints into the trees.

What are you doing? Horse called from behind. Where are you going?

The horse sounded anxious, and Teresa came back out. I have to get the boy, she explained.

That is crazy, the horse said. That is supremely ridiculous and beyond the realm of common sense. That animal is many miles away.

Then I’ll have to walk many miles, Teresa replied.

He’ll turn around and eat you! The horse snorted to show his full displeasure and swished his tail back and forth.

No, he won’t, Teresa said. Of course, he won’t.

But she wasn’t completely sure about that.

Plop, plop. The horse defecated, filling the air with an acrid but not unpleasant odor. Perhaps he had no choice in the matter, or perhaps he wanted to make a point. Teresa came forward into the meadow and stroked Horse’s muzzle. She did this automatically as she whispered, you can’t come with me. It’s too brushy. You have to wait here.

I don’t want to wait. The horse whinnied, perhaps thinking of his first master.

Yes, yes, but look at this nice grass, this tall sweet grass. Find a place to rest, away from the path. Don’t let people see you. Go find water, and then return here. Wait for me here.

He might come back.

Plague can’t hurt you, Teresa said. I am counting on you, she crooned as she stroked the fine fur and scratched the skin between the horse’s ears. I may be gone a long time. When I come back with the boy, we will talk about what to do next.

He will eat you for supper, the horse predicted, and you will cry out for me in heartrending tones.

At first the tracks were not hard to follow in the soft dirt under the pine and oak, places where the jaguar had pushed with his back feet in a hurry to get away, where his toes dug into the earth and disturbed the debris of needles and leaves. Soon, though, Teresa had to bend and squirm through the low branches, weaving through the resinous trees and skirting the occasional prickly pear or sharp-tipped yucca—just as the jaguar had skirted them as he ran from the frightening scene in the meadow. As she followed the prints, she breathed in the sharp smell of pine sap and the decaying litter of the forest floor. She had to watch carefully the ever-changing but ever-the-same patterns on the ground: dirt, stone, leaf, needle, and there, a slight indentation, the curve of a heel pad. She heard a jay’s squawk and the rustle of mice.

Slowly, the circle of her thoughts wound down. So many questions and decisions to make. Why had Plague chosen them? How could she find the wise woman and her village? How could she enter the wise woman’s village without bringing along Plague? Slowly, those concerns drifted away. She only had to follow these tracks, these marks in the ground. She only had to move through the trees like an animal herself, hunting another animal.

After half a league, the prints left the shelter of stunted pine, and the jaguar was running down a rocky slope across boulders of granite encrusted with yellow lichen. Sometimes Teresa could not find a mark for long stretches, and she had to rely on her intuition, her sense of where the big cat would go. Sometimes she had to backtrack, and for a while she was afraid she had lost him completely and was completely lost herself. Scanning the ground and then the horizon, she stood on an overlook from where she could see an expanse of canyons and jumbled hills covered with juniper and thorn bush. The village and its green and yellow fields were already behind her. Where was the boy in this rolling stretch of land? Teresa felt like cursing, as she had often heard women in the kitchen curse when they cut a finger or ruined a dish.

She closed her eyes and concentrated on an image of the boy’s face: the rounded cheeks, the long dark eyelashes, the grin that sometimes made her grin because—because he looked so pleased with himself, so ridiculously smug. She concentrated on his giggle and the way he had preened in his crown of yellow daisies. She called out to him. Then she plodded back up the slope, turned to her right, and found another track, a fresh print that led to another and another.

The jaguar was moving into the canyon below. Scrambling up a boulder, Teresa stretched her back and squinted and peered. Against a distant rock cliff, the edge of something showed green, the top of a cottonwood with the bright leaves of summer. A cottonwood tree meant water, likely a spring. The jaguar was going there to drink.

Teresa gathered her energy for the descent, down the steep crumbly slope. Her stomach rumbled. They had not yet stopped for lunch when Plague had tried to trick them in the meadow. Now it was many hours later, late afternoon, and her body wanted food. She envied the horse, grazing on tall sweet grass as he waited. She felt a little sorry for herself: tired and hungry and thirsty. Stumbling on rocks, slipping on gravel, she fell twice, starting small avalanches in the loose stone and scraping her hands. For some sections, she went down on her buttocks, half-sliding and hoping not to slide into the needles of a cholla cactus. More than ever, she was grateful for her sturdy yucca sandals, given to her as part of a servant’s “pay” for working in the Governor’s kitchen. The rest of her pay was a leather skirt, a cotton shirt, all the food she could eat, and a place to sleep. It hadn’t been such a bad bargain, she realized. Certainly she had grown used to eating a meal every few hours, whenever she wanted, and as much as she wanted. At this moment, she would give almost anything for a tortilla and bowl of stew. Or slices of cantaloupe. A piece of bread baked fresh for the Governor every morning. Porridge. Eggs. A turkey wing.

Teresa blew on her stinging bleeding hands and half-fell to the bottom of the long slope. For a while, she stood with rubbery legs in the sandy arroyo. Without much hope, she looked around for berries or roots or a small animal to kill. There was nothing to eat, nothing at all. But there were more tracks farther down the canyon, very clear in the white sand. The jaguar had come this way, too. The boy was nearby.

Keeeeen. Screeeeee. A pair of falcons screamed at her angrily. The low sandstone cliffs of the box canyon were pockmarked with the caves and white-smeared holes where these birds nested. Off and on as she walked, she saw the prints of the big cat. But she didn’t really need to look for them now. She knew where he was going.

The canyon walls narrowed, the shadows deepened, and the sun had dropped close to setting by the time she reached the spring. The world ended here in a half-circle of red rock, the colors burnished and striated, orange and brown and cinnamon. Above these towers, the azure sky darkened with the coming twilight. Below, the water of the pond reflected perfectly the shape of the cottonwood tree, the leaves of the tree rustling and swaying in a breeze, the green leaves a promise of everything good. Grass grew around the edges of the pond, along with wildflowers, yellow and white and red, dotting the ground like stars in the sky.

As soon as she saw that blue water and great overarching tree, Teresa’s weariness fell away like a tossed blanket. Her feet weren’t so bruised and sore. Her scraped hands hurt less. Even her hard heart seemed to lift and soar. She stared, puzzled at her reaction, and then she knew—this is how she had always imagined Heaven. Whenever Fray Tomás spoke of Paradise, whenever he praised Eden and its joys, this is what she saw.

The air felt freshly cool on her face as she went to drink from the shallow pool, then to stand on the bank and look searchingly about, scanning the nearby rock, alert for that pattern of the jaguar’s spots, the black and gold fur. Likely he was resting in one of these darkened alcoves, resting and waiting for her. Perhaps he was scared, remembering Plague. It’s time to wake up, she thought. Time to come back. She called out, “Boy! Boy!”

A panting noise answered. Hunh, hunh, hunh.

Teresa startled and turned. Across the green grass, from a shadowed cave in the red rock, the jaguar appeared, coughed, and stared. Bending his body and head lower to the ground, he inched toward her, his muscled legs tensed. His mottled coat glowed in the dimming light. His long tail flickered back and forth without a sound, and his big round eyes watched her intently, focused on her alone. She was all that mattered to him.

Sit still, he said. Don’t move. Don’t be afraid.

And Teresa was still, fascinated by those amber eyes, so intent, so focused.

This is your destiny, the jaguar said.

No, Teresa thought. Blinked and shook herself. It was not her destiny at all. Stop it, she said to the jaguar. Stop that. The animal paused, but only slightly. One paw lifted and moved back down and the next paw lifted, all so silently, bringing him forward, closer to her.

I remember you, the jaguar said. You are the human who spoke to me before, when I changed back.

Change back now, Teresa ordered. I want to see the boy.

The jaguar crouched lower and opened his mouth in a snarl, so that Teresa could see his pointed teeth. His blocky head and wide nose made him look imperious, like a king. I am no longer the boy, he snarled. I am myself, me. I am hungry, and I will eat you.

No! Teresa said. She made herself speak calmly, firmly. I am the boy’s friend. I take care of him.

I am no longer the boy, the jaguar repeated. He huffed in a series of angry hunh! hunh! hunh! The boy no longer needs you. The boy is better off with me. We will never change back again. We will eat you and drink you and sleep in the cave.

Teresa stiffened. She called again—not to the jaguar, but to the child. Remember the fish we caught together? Remember how good it tasted? Remember how we laughed and laughed? Change back now and we will fish here in this pond and then we will build a fire and sleep and go back to the horse. Remember how the horse let you ride him?

The jaguar wrinkled his flat nose. I like fish, he said. But there are no fish in this pond. I don’t smell any fish, only frogs and insects.

Then we will catch a rabbit, Teresa said. We will roast it for supper. I’ll tell you a story about a fiesta. A beautiful fiesta with lots of food.

A fiesta? the jaguar faltered.

A party with music and jugglers and chocolate and tortillas. You remember eating tortillas? You remember dancing! You remember being human.

I don’t! The jaguar sat back on his haunches and moved his head back and forth. He opened his mouth to gather in more scent from the air. He didn’t know what to do. Hunh. Hunh. He huffed.

You remember your mother, Teresa said firmly. You remember your Mamá. What happened to her? Where is she?

Teresa found herself entering the jaguar’s mind more forcefully than she had ever entered the mind of the horse or any other animal. She wanted to know more about the boy, how he shape-shifted and why. She wanted to know what had happened to his mother and father. Her curiosity and fear formed an edge that she used to move deep into the animal’s thoughts.

There she felt a whirling and a turning. She was staring out of yellow eyes. She saw the flutter of the cottonwood tree. She saw the shifting shadows along the rock walls. She saw a human girl standing by the pond, a human girl colored in shades of gray, each shade distinct. Even in the dimming sunset, she could see perfectly—the sharp detail of the girl’s stained clothes, her hair coming loose and unbraided, the four tattoos on each cheek.

The vertical pupil of her eye widened to take in more light.

Teresa knew now what the jaguar knew. He was not like other animals, for he flickered in and out of existence whenever the boy changed, and even in this, he was new and different—he was a mistake. A Mayan shaman did not enter the Jaguar God until adolescence. But the boy had changed early because the power was strong in him and because his parents did not have their village to guide them and because the rituals had not been done correctly. If they had not been taken north by the Spanish, they would have known what herbs to use and what ceremonies to perform. The boy would have grown old enough to control the jaguar, and the Jaguar God would have taught him how to change and when. Now it was too late.

What do you mean? Teresa asked the animal even as she looked through his yellow eyes.

I am here now. I won’t go back.

And you want what? Teresa pressed.

I want life! I want to be!

But while you live, what happens to the boy? Where is he?

The jaguar gave a mental shrug. He sleeps. He sleeps inside me safe and well.

Teresa thought about that. She looked out at the jaguar’s world, the prey on the bank of the pond—a human girl easily caught and killed, a delicious girl filled with blood, her flesh nourishing. She saw the fluttering cottonwood leaves, and she had the urge to bat them with her paw although she knew this was silly, for they were too high up. She scanned the rock cliffs. A falcon watched anxiously from its nest. She lifted her nose and opened her mouth and breathed in.

Her senses exploded. Now she could smell what the jaguar could smell, intoxicating odors deeper and richer than anything she had experienced before, layers of smell she could read like Fray Tomás had read the words in her father’s book: the wet decay of leaves; the urine of a coyote; the death fear of a mouse; the sweet cloy of the datura flower opening to attract the night moth; the poison in the flower’s petals and leaves; water and mud and insects and toads; lizards that should be eaten only if necessary; the wind carrying the smell of other animals; the wind itself; and the girl, of course, always the girl with her juicy flesh. The girl smelled incredibly good.

Teresa felt the world, immediate and joyous, pressing on her senses. There was no doubt what she should do. She should crouch and spring and eat the girl. That would give her more life, more of this world!

I understand, she said to the jaguar. You would have the boy sleep forever so you can live in his place. You are not willing to share this life with him.

He is not willing to share with me, the jaguar protested. The shamans would have me come out once a month, roaming the forest for a single night. They would have me under the boy’s control, under their control, ready to do their bidding to protect the village. They would have me retreat meekly like a rabbit or mouse whenever they command.

That’s how it should be, Teresa said.

But that is not how it is, the jaguar replied. I have come early, and I am stronger than the boy. I am stronger than you. I will have my life.

Wait! Teresa said. She reached out for the boy. She tried to wake him, to concentrate on his face, to make him hear her. You remember your father, she insisted. You remember your mother. You lived with them among the Spanish hidalgos and slave hunters. You remember them.

The jaguar shook his head and the long length of his body as if trying to shake off a spray of water.

But he did remember. His father and mother had been slaves, although not in the silver mines, branded, overworked, and soon dead. They had been the personal slaves of a Spanish alcalde mayor, the main official in a small town, a man who treated them well and who let their little boy run freely in the house and barracks making friends with everyone from household cook to captain himself. The boy had been happy, tossed into the air by his father, cuddled and fed by his mother. Even the slave hunters had petted him, letting him play with their whips and swords, the swords so heavy he could barely lift them.

One day, his father had seen that his son had the shaman’s power. His father was not surprised, for his father’s uncle had had the power, too. So his father had taken him behind the barn and made him drink a bitter liquid and had cut his hand so that blood dripped freely into a cup. His mother watched and cried because she was afraid. His mother’s mother also had entered the Jaguar God once a month, roaming the forest near their village and keeping the village safe from other animals—but that was in a place where people understood such things. His mother had cried, “They will think it is witchcraft!” and his father had held his son close. “We will protect him,” he said.

Yes, Teresa urged, that is your real life.

The jaguar growled, remembering. But they didn’t protect him, the jaguar hissed through yellow teeth. The rituals didn’t work. They were not done correctly in a circle of shamans. I came too soon, and I am too strong. His mother and father died. Even the slave hunters died. There is nothing left for him in the human world.

The jaguar remembered, and Teresa remembered. The Indians in that area had risen up as they sometimes did, tired of the iron fists of the conquistadors, with their new rules and new religion. Perhaps these Opatas had found some special power. Perhaps they were led by a man or woman who claimed a magic they believed could overthrow the magic of the Spanish, the pitiless magic of sarampión and viruela, and so they had stormed the town of the alcalde mayor. Without doubt, that man had been terribly shocked, for he thought himself a benevolent ruler. His men of arms were also shocked, cut down as they slept, stabbed in the heart with a stone knife or smashed on the head with a heavy rock. The Mayan slaves had also been killed. They meant nothing to the Indians here. They were foreigners just as much as the Spanish.

The boy had seen everything. He had woken in the night needing to urinate, and he had gone out alone without waking his mother, exploring alone as he sometimes did around the barracks and barn, letting his eyes adjust to the darkness. He saw the shadows of shadows creeping into the compound. He heard cries and curses as the Spanish woke and fought and died. He saw the alcalde mayor dragged out from his house into the dirt yard, near the fruit trees. The Opatas slit his throat and let the blood water the trees. They dragged out the alcalde mayor’s family, his wife and teenage daughters, and all the servants and slaves, and they slit their throats, too, and let their blood water the trees.

When the boy heard his mother screaming, just before she died, he ran from his hiding place near some barrels of grain. The blood-spattered men saw him. “Another one!” they shouted to each other and threw his dead mother on the ground next to his dead father. With jokes and terrifying smiles, they came for him.

But they were not smiling when he changed. They drew back then, and some of them ran away. The jaguar wanted to chase those men. He almost rushed forward, almost lashed out biting and clawing. But he was bewildered and full of a wild mourning, and he ran away instead, fleeing the bodies on the ground. He lived as a jaguar for many days, until Teresa found him and spoke to him.

You brought the boy back, the jaguar accused her.

And I will bring him back again, Teresa insisted. She understood that if she waited any longer, she would be seduced by the smells of the jaguar’s world, by his hunger and anticipation of the girl’s flesh—flesh that was her own, she reminded herself. She had to leave the jaguar’s mind, and she had to take the boy with her. Wake up, she said, and reached out.

Teresa knew now what the jaguar knew, everything that had happened before the boy’s change, and so she knew the boy’s name, what his mother and father had called him, all their love in that single word. “Pomo!” she cried. “Pomo, wake up!”