The Gate of Worlds, page 2
"I don't think it's a good idea."
We went below. The ship steamed westward. That night I dreamed I was in the palace of Moctezuma, and the King took me by the hand, and called me Dan, and said he was glad I had come to visit his country.
TWO
The Realm of Moctezuma XII
I will resist the temptation to describe my ocean crossing in detail.
It was an unpleasant experience, and I see no reason to inflict that experience on any readers I'm lucky enough to have. Besides, describing the voyage would mean reliving it, and I'm not keen to do that.
So let's just say that it was six weeks that seemed like six months, full of gray, tossing seas, surging waves, cold rain, and other discomforts. I was seasick for the first two weeks, which is just as well, since it meant I heaved up the Aztec food before it got very far into my digestive system. After a while I got my sea legs and stopped heaving, and as a result came down with a variety of stomach miseries from that food. Then I got used to the food. But I never got used to the idea of living in a little wooden box tossed around on the surface of the sea.
My chief comfort was that few of my shipmates got used to it either, including the sailors. Aztecs are not seamen by inclination; they go to sea for reasons of national pride, but that doesn't mean they like it. Your Portuguese, your Spaniard, your Italian-those are your sailors. But, like the good Moslems they are, they do their sailing in an easterly direction from Europe. I rejoiced in seeing the long-legged Mexican sailors unloading their dinners at the leeward rail. (I learned very quickly that it's not such a good idea to heave to windward.) But it was a pale pleasure to watch them, seeing as how I felt.
I spent a good deal of my time throwing knives with my bunkmates. Good simple folks that they were, they were willing to toss knives eighteen hours a day, until our cabin wall was thin as paper and the chips were ankle deep. But I needed a more complex challenge. I excused myself tactfully and mingled with the other passengers. Since there was no one else on board who would admit to speaking English, I had to speak Nahuatl, and my knowledge of the Aztec language was polished mightily within a few days.
Most of the Mexican passengers, being rich and aloof, wanted nothing to do with a scruffy English boy of no particular importance. But I struck up some acquaintance with a Peruvian boy of about sixteen, who was by way of carrying on a shipboard romance with an Aztec girl-love knows no politics-and through her I met her older brother, a sleek Mexican brave a couple of years older than I. He was just rebellious enough toward his parents so that he was willing to talk.
His name was Nezahualpilli. As Aztec names go, that's a simple one. (Try walking around with a barbarous mouthful like Ixtlilxochitl! That was his father's name.) He had done the grand sightseeing tour through Rome, Greece, Turkey, and on as far as Egypt, and now he was going home to get married. His intended bride, as far as I gathered, was fat, dull-witted, and mustached, but her family owned a cacao plantation the size of Yorkshire. Papa Ixtlilxochitl had arranged the wedding, and it would be worth Nezahualpilli's inheritance to complain. Well, that was his problem. My problem was that I was going to a brand new world with six shillings in my pocket and no idea of what I was going to do, except that I wanted to do something exciting and important.
"You have nothing arranged for you in Mexico?" he asked.
"Nothing."
"But what will you do?"
"I don't know."
"We don't tolerate paupers, you see. They'll arrest you. They'll put you in the army."
"No," I said. "That's not what I'm coming to Mexico for."
"But you have no place to fill," he pointed out.
I admitted it was true. I admitted that I was doing a scatterbrained thing. Essentially I had run away from home. With permission, true, but without any real plan. I had taken off for the Hesperides in the blind hope that good fortune would come my way.
I said, "Well, if you were in my place, what would you do?"
Nezahualpilli considered that for a moment. Then he replied, "The first thing would be to go to Tenochtitlan. The capital is where things happen. Then I would seek out some young, ambitious member of our royal family and attach myself to his service. After that, anything could occur. We have many restless young princes. They frequently plan military adventures. It could be to your profit to join the right one."
"Can you tell me the name of a man to look for in Tenochtitlan?"
He shrugged. "I am not from that city. I do not meddle in such things. I simply offer the suggestion, for what it may be worth."
Nezahualpilli would go no further, and I didn't press him. He was all right, for an Aztec. But, as I learned later on, he wasn't really an Aztec, for he came from Texcoco, a city east of the big lake in the Mexican heartland. Texcoco was a great city long before the Aztecs gave up chewing mud in the highlands, and even now, six centuries later, its people look down on the Aztecs as interlopers. Nezahualpilli invited me to visit him when I reached Texcoco. "I will introduce you to my new wife," he said gloomily.
I pondered his advice as our ship neared Mexico. The more I thought about it, the more I liked it. Yes: go to some bold prince and say, "I'm here to serve you. Arthur of Britain's blood is in my veins. Richard the Lion-Hearted is my ancestor, too. And James the Valiant, who swam in rivers of Turkish blood. Take me into your service and we'll grow great together." Yes. That was the way.
We were in tropic seas now. The sun, a great swollen yellow eye, seemed to take up half the heavens. I began to worry about what that searing radiation was going to do to my fair Anglo-Saxon skin, accustomed as it was to an England in which cloudy days are the rule of life. I decided to expose myself a little at a time, and this, with some suffering along the way, turned the trick. Within ten days I could stand the sunlight except at the midday hours, and my white skin was tanning swiftly.
It had just begun to seem as though the voyage would never end when the word was passed that we were landing at the Mexican port of Chalchiuhcueyecan. No, I didn't invent that name, nor do I think it's particularly hard to pronounce, now that I've spent some time in Mexico. Take it a syllable at a time and you'll be all right, more or less. It's in the province of Cuetlaxtla, which is on the east coast of that narrow part of Mexico just before the land widens into the Middle Hesperides.
It was hot. I had never known such heat before. It was as if a blanket lay over the world here. When I drew the air into my lungs I felt them start to sizzle. Sweat oiled my skin. Looking through the sweltering haze toward shore, I saw the greenness of unknown trees, and a low swampy plain stretching toward the horizon. They had warned me that parts of Mexico were hot, but I was unprepared for such infernal heat. I prayed that the interior of the country would be cooler. I have never been fond of heat; if I must confess it, I picked Mexico over Africa simply on grounds of the climate. And as we prepared to land at Chalchiuhcueyecan, I was wondering if I had made a mistake.
The ship approached shore, its paddlewheels slowly and solemnly revolving. Nezahualpilli came up to me, fully clad in his Aztec finery now, pearl ear-plugs, and war paint and feathered cape and all.
"Have care," he said. "The gods go with you. Perhaps this will help."
He thrust something into my pocket and strode away.
I pulled it out. It was a roll of paper money, Mexican currency, every bill bearing its own gaping-mouthed divinity. He had given me upwards of a dozen gold cacaos, the gold cacao being worth nearly two pounds sterling, or three ducats in the Turkish reckoning. That is to say, Nezahualpilli had handed me as much as an English workingman hopes to earn in a healthy year.
Charity? Dan Beauchamp take charity?
I was going to run after him and stuff his money down his throat. Then I thought better of it. I have always been a reasonable fellow, once I overcome my first hot reactions. To Nezahualpilli, the money represented nothing more than light pocket-cash; his jewelry alone probably cost a hundred times what he had given me. On the other hand, I had only a few shillings jingling in my pocket, and unless I could sell them for their silver value they wouldn't be worth a thing in Mexico. I had come here penniless, vaguely hoping that luck would ride with me. Now that luck had thrust a dozen gold cacaos into my pocket, how could I take offense? I silently thanked Nezahualpilli for his generosity, and went below to collect my belongings.
An hour later, I stepped ashore on Mexican soil.
I expected things to be different, and they were. This was, after all, the New World. Europeans have been fascinated by this hemisphere since Diogo Lobo was blown across the Ocean Sea in 1585, en route from Portugal to Africa, and I was no exception. I stood entranced by the unfamiliar trees and flowers, the squat buildings, the hideous idols mounted at the end of the pier, the brown naked children running around, the spicy smells of cooking food. A New World indeed! I was glad I had come, despite everything.
"Customs!" a rough voice bellowed in my ear. "On line for customs!"
Customs is a custom I could well do without. I haven't traveled much, but it's enough to make me hate the nonsense of conferring with the bureaucracy every time one crosses a boundary. In Europe it can be a devilish thing, especially if you're traveling in the Teutonic States, where every mile or two you enter a new sovereign nation and have to go through the process all over again. Here, presumably, I'd only have to pass through the business once, but that was once too many.
The debarking passengers formed a long, long line. Native Mexicans, and there were a lot of them, were at the head of it. Then came passengers from politically sensitive and powerful countries, like Peru, Turkey, Russia, and Ghana. Lastly were the citizens of unimportant countries: the Spaniards, the various Upper Hesperides travelers, and myself. It took a minute or so to clear each passenger through customs, and there were five hundred passengers, all but a dozen of them ahead of me, and three customs officers.
Three hours later, well fried from standing in the sun with no roof over me…
"Passport!" the customs man barked.
He said it in Turkish, which he assumed I knew, since every European speaks that language in addition to his own. He was a huge, slender Aztec dressed in a white tunic and the usual decorations. His bare chest, gleaming with sweat, was the color of old vellum. I glowered at him sullenly and produced my passport.
Unfolding it, he looked at my picture, then at me. "Dan Beauchamp?"
"That's right," I said in his own language.
Obstinately, perhaps deliberately to wound, he went on speaking Turkish. "Nationality?"
"English."
"Length of stay in Mexico?"
"I'm not sure," I answered, still talking Nahuatl. "Perhaps indefinite."
"Are you making fun of me?"
"I don't understand."
"Speak Turkish!"
"I'm not a Turk."
"You're European, aren't you?"
"I'm an Englishman. Shall I speak to you in English?"
"Speak Turkish!"
I said several things to him in English, fine old words that I wouldn't care to repeat here. Then I held my breath. If he understood English, I might find myself spread-eagled on a sacrifice stone with a priest groping inside my chest for my heart. But he didn't understand.
"What was that?" he asked.
"I said in English that since I'm an Englishman, I won't speak Turkish. I understand Nahuatl. I'll speak to you in that tongue."
Like all bureaucrats, he was bewildered by an unpredictable development. Europeans weren't supposed to speak the Mexican language; they were supposed to speak Turkish. Very much off balance and looking as though he'd love to put me on the next boat to Southampton, he said in his own language, "Why have you come to Mexico?"
"Military service."
"We have no need of white-skinned soldiers."
"You haven't seen me fight yet."
He scowled, revealing a set of elegantly stained teeth dyed according to current Aztec theories of beauty. "Entry denied," he said. "You have no tourist visa. You have no work permit. We have no use for you here."
"But-"
"A ship sails for Europe in seven days. Until then you will remain in detention."
He turned around to beckon to a pair of ugly, sinister guards armed with lances and pistols. I had a vision of myself dragged away to some loathsome cell and kept penned up until I could be flung aboard the next homeward liner. It would be a trifle humiliating to show up in London next month with the news that the Aztecs hadn't let me in.
The situation called for a little improvisation.
While he was trying to get the attention of the guards, I picked my passport from his desk and slid one of Nezahualpilli's banknotes in it. Then I said loudly to the customs man, "If any harm comes to me, Prince Axayacatl will hear of this."
The mention of King Moctezuma's son and heir brought the customs man around to face me again. Suddenly he looked a little wan under all that showy paint.
"Who?"
"Axayacatl," I repeated smugly, hoping I was pronouncing the name at least approximately right. That "x" is a "sh," and the sound is something like Ah-shah-YAH-catl. I added, "The Prince is hiring Englishmen for his private bodyguard. Didn't you know that? He sent all the way to England for me, and he won't like it if you treat me poorly."
I reeled that off so glibly that he looked convinced. But then he hesitated and said, "Can you prove this? Where is a document from the Prince?"
"Here."
I handed him the passport again.
He opened it and discovered that shiny brown banknote. Abruptly his hand came up with what must be an automatic gesture of all public officials, and long spidery fingers closed over the bill. He shut his fist. The hand went out of sight, and the bill went with it.
Then he picked up a wooden stamping block, dipped it in a bowl of ink, and stamped my passport. I was free to enter Mexico.
"Good luck in the service of the Prince Axayacatl," he called after me as I passed through the customs shed.
On the other side I waited a few minutes more while my three knife-wielding redskin companions were checked out. They had no difficulties, and when they emerged we hugged each other goodbye and reminisced a while over our journey together. They made me promise to visit them if I ever came to their part of the world, and I solemnly vowed I would. Then the oldest and most articulate of them-his name was Opothle-pressed his sheathed knife into my hand and insisted that I take it.
"No. I couldn't possibly accept."
"I wish it. You will need it. It is a good knife, a fine knife. It carries good spirits."
"But-"
"It was the knife of my grandfather's grandfather."
"That's exactly why I can't take it."
Opothle's eyes hardened. He pushed my hand away as I tried to give him back the weapon. I began to sense that I was insulting him by refusing the gift.
"You will take the knife," he said. It was an order. If I still balked, I might very well find myself in a fight.
"I will take the knife," I agreed. "I am deeply grateful. I can't tell you how honored I am."
"When you are in our country, you will visit us," Opothle said gravely. He punched my shoulder lightly in a gesture of farewell. Then he walked away.
Shrugging, I strapped the sheath of the knife to my belt and pulled out the blade. It was a superb weapon, of course. I would never forget the satisfying thwick! as it sliced into the cabin wall. Under the blazing Mexican sun such a knife might well be useful. I nodded my thanks once more to Opothle's retreating form.
Then I sheathed the knife and started to walk into the town.
New World or not, port cities are all alike. There is the waterfront, with its piers and sheds, its warehouses, its one-faced street lined with brokerage houses and commodity dealers. Then there is the interior, with hotels and business establishments. And far inland are the homes of the people lucky enough to live in lovely Chalchiuhcueyecan.
Half dead from the heat, I made my way through a warehouse block. I needed lodging, first. Then dinner. Then information about the route to Tenochtitlan, high in the cool inland valley of the country.
Youngsters stared at me as if I were a visitor from another world, which in a sense I was. Had they ever seen blonde hair before? Surely there was an English consulate here, this being the main Mexican port of the English-Mexico line. Surely some consular official had golden hair, Nordic hair, the hair that the Angles and Saxons brought to Britain before the dark Norman invaders arrived.
Children ran after me.
"Quetzalcoatl! Quetzalcoatl!" they shrilled.
Of course, The Feathered Serpent, the blonde god out of the east, the white-skinned worker of wonders. The Mexicans have long awaited the return of that vanished god. When the Portuguese discovered Mexico in the reign of Moctezuma III, nearly four hundred years ago, the cry went up instantly that Quetzalcoatl had returned. But the wily old King knew how to deal with gods; he plucked out their hearts on top of the Great Pyramid at Tenochtitlan, and since then the white man has always walked warily in the Hesperides.
"Quetzalcoatl!"
I smiled graciously. In English I said, "I will now blot out the sun in token of my divine nature."
But the sun remained as hot and bright as ever. Perhaps if I had tried it in Nahuatl, it might have worked. But frankly, I didn't have the courage.
The children lost interest in me. I turned a corner and headed for what looked like a public hotel, wondering how I would have paid my way if Nazahualpilli hadn't pressed his money on me.
It was a three-story building, fashioned-as most of them were-of dried mud plastered a bright red with some powdered stone. Just within the door I found a young Mexican maiden as lovely as a cool brook in springtime. She was perhaps three years younger than I, with tawny skin, full lips, bright teeth, and large, round, dark, shining eyes that looked smilingly into my own.
I was unmanned entirely by those eyes. I stood there gaping foolishly for a long moment, cudgelling my brain to find the Mexican words for, "Can I get a night's lodging here?" My mouth opened. My mouth closed. No words came forth.
